


Days of Agony

by MirielOfGisborne



Series: Forget and Forgive [7]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Agony, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Battle Of Five Armies, Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Awesome Dwalin, Battle of Five Armies, Bedside Vigils, Bilbo POV, Burns, Coming Out, Declarations Of Love, Depression, Domestic Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Dwalin & Thorin Oakenshield Friendship, Dwalin Is A Softie, Dwarves, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erebor, Eventual Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Forgiveness, Gen, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Slash, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Intolerance, M/M, Male Slash, Medical Torture, Medieval Medicine, Mistletoe, Non-Graphic Violence, Not Really Character Death, Nurse Bilbo Baggins, Pain, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Romantic Angst, Sick Thorin, Slash, Slow Build, Thorin Feels, Torture, Yuletide, bagginshield
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-12 21:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 71,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1200905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirielOfGisborne/pseuds/MirielOfGisborne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. In the aftermath of the Battle of the Five Armies, Bilbo Baggins finds himself at the end of his adventure. But is it really the end? The deathbed confession of a badly wounded Thorin Oakenshield causes him to look back in regret and to glimpse a possible future more startling than he has ever expected. Will Thorin live long enough for that future to be realised? And is Bilbo truly ready for it? Join Bilbo on his new journey and find out!<br/>Slow build Thorin/Bilbo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sealed with Fire

**Author's Note:**

> This is a multi-chapter story depicting the beginning of my "Forget and Forgive" series and covers Thorin's recovery period after the Battle of the Five Armies.  
> 

The world was certainly not ahead. It was all around him, spinning madly, and making him sick. Bilbo got up as best he could on wobbly legs and fighting a burning ache in his head. Even if his vision was slightly blurred and his eyes hurt further from the glowing sun, he was able to determine that he was still on Ravenhill, where he had chosen to take his stand, with the Elves. He was alone, however, and very cold.

Down in the valley, there was little activity and much silence. He could discern no moving enemies, but just to be sure, he drew his sword half out of its sheath and peered at it. Indeed, the blade was shiny silver, no longer haloed in blue, a clear sign that there were no live orcs or goblins nearby. Putting Sting back, Bilbo sighed in relief and returned his gaze to the devastation before him. There were still a few sheared banners fluttering earnestly out of the field of dead warriors. Victory seemed assured, but at no small price. Relief faded quickly into a heavy heart, and Bilbo’s thoughts flew to the ones he still called his friends. He could make out a camp in the distance as well as some commotion at the Gate of the Lonely Mountain. Dwarves were hard at work, removing the fortified wall that Thorin and his companions had raised to defend their treasure. Even if his last conversation with the dwarf king had been tainted with venom and threats, Bilbo wondered and worried, about Thorin, about young Fili and Kili, about the wise Balin and the brave Dwalin, about Bifur, Bombur and the kind-hearted Bofur, about Dori, Nori and Ori, and about Gloin and Oin.

Just when he was starting to doubt that he was able to walk all the distance that would have granted him knowledge of their fate, Bilbo heard steps climbing the rocks below, and coming towards him. His hand went instinctively to his sword, but he was once again relieved to see that the intruder was a man, who explained that he had been sent by Gandalf the wizard to look for the hobbit, as he was needed at once. The man offered to carry Bilbo down to the camp, and Bilbo was grateful for it. The grim journey through the mangled remains of the Five Armies convinced him that he could not have done it himself.

By the time they got to Dale, Bilbo’s nausea had acquired vicious new zeal. He struggled to keep himself upright as the man put him down before a tent, where Gandalf was waiting with gloom on his face and an arm in a sling. He brightened quickly at the sight of the hobbit and ran towards him, his healthy arm spread out in welcome.

“Bilbo!” he cried, as he came close, smiling and laying his hand affectionately on the hobbit’s shoulder. “You are alive and well after all! I am much relieved!”

Feeling a little better at seeing a familiar face again, Bilbo smiled in return. “Yes, yes, I seem to be in one piece. I am glad to see you as well.”

Gandalf studied him, shaking his head in some awe and a bit of concern as he eyed what was no doubt a visible wound on the side of Bilbo’s forehead, where it hurt the most. “We will have to take care of that,” he grumbled.

“How is everyone else?” chanced Bilbo, not without a pause in his breath.

Gandalf’s expression clouded again. “Come, Thorin wants to see you,” he said, moving his free arm around the hobbit’s shoulder and nudging him gently towards the tent.

“Is he all right?” asked Bilbo foolishly. Of course Thorin was not all right. That much was obvious from the wizard’s growing frown and silence.

A sudden hollow in his gut, Bilbo glanced ahead towards the entrance to the tent. It was a black hole of uncertain shape into a territory yet unknown but terrifying. He walked towards it more under the wizard’s guidance than out of his own will, and he had to be nudged again to enter.

The inside of the tent was barely lit by a failing torch. It took some time for Bilbo’s eyes to adjust from the abundant light of the cloudless day outside. His nose, however, immediately smelled blood and metal and mud. His already upset stomach turned inside him, but he endeavoured to focus on retrieving his eyesight.

As the wall of blackness before him started to disperse, Bilbo recognized the huddled shapes of Dwalin and Balin a few feet away. They acknowledged him with tense glances. They were standing by the head of a makeshift bed, where a mound of blankets lay bundled over a great, inert shape, which was undoubtedly Thorin himself. His forehead was visible, smudged with black and crimson, and his closed eyes. His weapons and rent armour were piled at the foot of the bed. Nearby, there was a heap of blackened, blood-soaked rags, which had most certainly been his clothes. It seemed unreal, impossible even, that the broken, bleeding mass in that bed could be the proud Thorin Oakenshield, who had proven his true valour in leading Dwarves, and Elves, and Men into that great battle against a common foe, who had acted indeed like a king worthy of his great line.

Bilbo was making a stubborn stand at the tent’s entrance, but he soon felt another light push in his back. Gandalf was prodding him once more to tread where he feared. Perhaps there really was no time to linger. Perhaps Thorin’s time was running out with his blood, and whatever he wanted to say to Bilbo had to be said right away, or never be said at all. The thought of no more time with Thorin filled Bilbo with terror, as he had not known before, not when facing giant orcs and spiders, or even a fire-breathing dragon. He had been afraid then that his life would end abruptly. Now he was afraid that it would continue without the chance to be complete. He still wanted to apologize to Thorin for the terrible mess that he had made with the Arkenstone, and to reattach the severed threads of their friendship. His arms were still sore where the maddened dwarf had grabbed him in his rage, to throw him to the rocks, but he felt now that he was not entirely undeserving of that pain. Taking the few hard steps closer to the bed, he perceived that, as he was then, wounded and weak, hanging on to life by a thinning thread, Thorin was again the person that Bilbo knew and that he had grown fond of, even though he had not fully realised it until that moment, when it seemed to be very, very late.

As the hobbit approached, Balin bent over Thorin, whispering to him that his burglar was there.

Thorin opened his eyes, their blue still surprisingly clear, albeit a little pale, but otherwise the only part of him that still looked unblemished. His hand emerged searching from under the covers, and Bilbo felt compelled to receive it into his own. It was bloody as well, its knuckles grazed raw, and Bilbo strived to make his touch light enough so as not to stir even more pain into the dwarf’s martyred body.

“Thought I’d lost you,” said Thorin with only a faint echo of his voice, once deep and powerful.

“Oh, no, I’m not so easily lost,” answered Bilbo, finding an unexpected power to smile. Perhaps it was the wonder to see Thorin speaking kindly to him again.

“Bilbo, I would take back my words and deeds at the Gate,” continued Thorin, obviously using all his remaining energy in order to speak.

“It’s all forgotten,” said Bilbo, squeezing his hand as gently as he could.

Thorin was silent for a few moments, breathing more heavily. This conversation was clearly draining, but he did not intend to end it so soon. “I wish to part from you in friendship,” he whispered.

“Part from me? No, no, you don’t have to part from me. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But I am,” said Thorin, with the hint of a resigned smile.

“What? Don’t say that,” Bilbo tried to reassure with a shake of his head.

Balin put his hand gently on his shoulder, and when Bilbo glanced back, he noticed a certain note of resignation on his face as well, as if he was telling him to stop giving false encouragement where it was not due, or needed.

Bilbo looked back to Thorin, full understanding of what was really happening hitting him like a hammer to the head. Thorin appeared frighteningly peaceful, dignified as ever, ready to die like the hero that he was, like a king of his people that had done his duty to ensure that they had their deserved home.

“Forgive me,” he murmured with the last ounce of his strength, and with the last ounce after his last, he added, “I love you.”

Bilbo gaped, thinking that he had not heard well. Yet, Dwalin’s eyes flashing to him fiercely told him that he had indeed heard very well. No one had any time to react properly, however, for Thorin erupted into a coughing fit, his mystifying words drowning in a gurgle of dark blood. Bilbo felt himself being pulled back into Gandalf’s robes, as Dwalin rushed to lift Thorin’s head so that he would not choke on his own blood, and Balin wiped the thick liquid from his mouth and beard. In spite of their vigilance, both brothers appeared composed in the face of such an awful scene, as only old warriors could be. When Dwalin laid his head back, Thorin’s eyes were closed again, and he had regained his former air of serenity. Whether he was still awake but exhausted, or whether he had lost consciousness completely, Bilbo was unable to determine. Yet from the shadow growing on Dwalin’s face as he withdrew and allowed his brother to continue with his careful cleaning efforts, it did not seem like there was much to hope for.

Thorin’s last words still rang loudly in Bilbo’s mind, even if they had been spoken in a whisper, so loud in fact that it hurt. His eyes were drawn back to Dwalin, who was also staring at him quite intensely. He too had been startled by Thorin’s confession, but it was not suspicion that Bilbo could read now in his wild gaze. He was angry with that searing kind of anger that only Dwarves could muster, but Bilbo did not feel that it was directed at him. Rather, it was revealing itself to him and spreading to him like smoke from a pipe, pervading his every pore. Thorin could not die now, when he had so much to live for, when he had finally reclaimed his lost homeland. He deserved to be King under the Mountain. He had not only inherited that right, but he had also earned it at the price of his own blood and that of his kin. This was an injustice too great for the world to contain and it imbued Bilbo with the same dwarvish anger, rising from depths darker than he knew he had.

It was with an angered frown that he turned to Gandalf, asking, “Why won’t you do something?”

“There is nothing that I can do,” answered Gandalf, raising a caressing hand to Bilbo’s face.

“Can’t you at least try?” asked Bilbo, pulling himself away from Gandalf’s embrace. “You’ve brought him back before. Why can’t you do it again?

“I have tried,” said Gandalf defensively.

“Then try again!”

“I would, Bilbo. It is not as if I don’t want to help Thorin. But he is beyond my help now. I am very sorry.”

Against the frailty that had taken over his body, the cold in his bones, the dull pain in his skull and that nauseating dizziness, Bilbo felt his anger grow and give him a sudden infusion of vigour. It was his turn to feel betrayed by a friend as he looked up at the wizard’s concerned but otherwise tranquil face. His concern seemed directed at Bilbo mostly, and it was most inappropriate when Thorin was the one who was dying. For the first time in his life, Bilbo felt that he would never be able to forgive someone.

“There is something we can still try,” Dwalin muttered darkly behind, and Bilbo turned as if yanked by an invisible string. Dwalin looked at him again with his feral eyes. But there was also a ray of hope in them. “I will need your sword, Bilbo,” he said, and the hobbit thought he could hear pleading in his raspy voice.

“My, my sword? For what?”

“He will not last the night. That we are all certain of,” said Dwalin, coming closer and speaking only to Bilbo. “Unless we seal the worst of his wounds now.”

“Can you do that? With my sword?”

“Yes. I need a clean, smooth blade, not very long.”

“And what do you plan to do with it?” asked Bilbo, frowning with the suspicion that the cure would be worse than the disease. Dwalin’s storming gaze confirmed his suspicion. “Oh, you are not going to burn him!”

“It is the only way, Bilbo,” said Balin, coming up at his brother’s side.

Bilbo looked madly from one to the other. “But surely we can ask the Elves for - ”

“There is no time for elvish balms!” shouted Dwalin, swooping over the poor hobbit and shaking him as if he had truly been a rabbit. “We do this now or he has hours to live! At least we will be giving him a chance.” Appearing somewhat regretful of his outburst, Dwalin unshackled his hands from Bilbo’s already damaged arms and retreated, waiting for him to make his decision.

“All right,” squeaked Bilbo, eventually coming back to his senses, and drew Sting out of its sheath. “Here,” he said faintly, handing it to the boorish dwarf, his hand trembling visibly. Dwalin grabbed it, nodding in thanks, then hurried outside, no doubt in search of live fire.

“Bilbo,” said Gandalf, his warm voice breaking through the even grimmer tension of this last conversation. “Perhaps you should see if the Elves can spare anything that helps with burns. And have Oin take care of your head. He’s with Fili and Kili in the next tent.”

“Yes,” said Bilbo quickly, glancing towards Thorin. Gandalf was obviously trying to spare him the gruesome spectacle of that last desperate attempt to save Thorin’s life. He had to admit that he did not want to see or hear any of it. The sole thought of his own sword being used to burn Thorin’s flesh and cause him excruciating pain made his legs feel like straws after a good rain. He wanted to run out of that tent as soon and as swiftly as possible.

As he walked past Gandalf on his way out, the wizard offered a comforting squeeze of his shoulder. “I will try to make it easier for him.”

Unable to return any of the wizard’s optimism, Bilbo lowered his head and walked out of the tent. The air outside could not be called fresh, and it did nothing to alleviate his dreadful headache, or his growing nausea. As he started walking towards the other tent where Oin was supposed to be, he met Dwalin, who was carrying Sting firmly in one hand, its blade glowing fiery red, and a cauldron full of burning coals in the other. He gave the hobbit a look of warning and hurried back past him. Bilbo glanced after him for a second, then began running as fast as his feet could take him, not even thinking of visiting Oin, Fili or Kili, although he wanted to know if they at least had fared better.

He could not get far enough before the first of Thorin’s screams pierced the thin winter air. His hands went by themselves to his ears, covering them tightly, and his eyes squeezed shut as if that might have kept the sound away. None of it worked really, and he soon found that it was impossible to continue his journey. He stumbled over some rocks and collapsed behind a crumbling stone wall, crying with his head buried into his knees until the screams finally stopped.

The thought of his mission to find some possible comfort for Thorin was the only power that managed to get him up and walking again. He also found the strength to wipe his tears and discovered, from the resulting black smearing of his fingers, that his own face was filthy with the dust of war.

He walked without seeing much of where he was going, or of what surrounded him. When he reached the Elven camp, he noticed that it didn’t look much better than that of the Dwarves or of the Men, but somehow it didn’t seem as horrifying anymore. Not as it had seemed when he had first woken up alone on Ravenhill and had looked upon the devastated valley. Now it was as if he was dreaming, there, in the thick of death and destruction, but detached and unfeeling of the suffering he was witnessing. He didn’t even react when one of the elves rushed towards him, offering to find him a healer. He let himself be guided to a tent of their own, larger and brighter and less stifling than Thorin’s, where a female elf, lithe and radiant as all elves were, took him by the arm and sat him down on a white bed. Bilbo stared blankly into nothingness as she began to work on his head wound. He only came to a little later, when the elf healer asked him with sincere concern about any other damage that he might have had, or of any other hurts he wanted soothed. He faced her finally, but did not answer. It seemed distasteful to complain, or even to be asked about mere bumps and scratches after he had had to listen to Thorin Oakenshield scream out in pain for what had seemed to be too long.

“Can you spare anything to treat burns?” he asked simply.

“Burns? But you do not have any, from what I can see,” said the elf, giving him a searching look.

“Not for me. I need to see your king. I am Bilbo Baggins-”

“Companion of Thorin, we know, and friend of the Elves,” she said quietly.

“I come on Thorin’s behalf,” announced Bilbo unimpressed, grimacing somewhat at her last remark, surely a reference to his role in securing the Arkenstone, the one object they could use to deal with Thorin in his madness and hopefully avoid unnecessary war. “I need to make a request from your king, for another king.”

The elf lowered her head slightly. “Very well, I will take you once I’ve finished dressing your wound.”

“Take me now,” said Bilbo, his own voice sounding unfamiliar and commanding to him. His stare must have been equally convincing, for the elf hurried to finish her work and then gestured to Bilbo to follow in her footsteps.

As they reached the Elvenking, the healer retreated with a bow and left the hobbit to make his request. Bilbo explained in not too many words that Thorin’s situation was dire, and that he needed all the assistance he could get. Thranduil listened, then called his chief healer, who handed Bilbo a generous jar of something bluish green that would help greatly to keep Thorin’s wounds uninfected, and to allow them to heal sooner. Bilbo thanked them without excessive ceremony and started back to the Dwarf camp, running as fast as he had when he had wanted to get away from it.

As he approached Thorin’s tent again, he noticed that Dwalin was standing outside, looking even gloomier than before. He had apparently caught sight of the hobbit from the corner of his eye, for he motioned to his belt, as he came close, and handed him his sword back, cleaner and shinier than it had been when Bilbo had relinquished it earlier for brutal medicinal purposes. “This belongs to you,” he grumbled, not looking Bilbo in the eye, and sounding afflicted.

Bilbo stared at it for a while, and his hand hovered above it hesitating, almost not wanting to acknowledge ownership of it. He remembered hesitating as well when Gandalf had first presented the then nameless sword to him, but it had been because of his fear to use it. In the meantime he had found that he had more courage to use a sword than he had expected, and he had even become proud of that and of his ability to fight for his friends and their noble cause. That sword had saved Thorin’s life twice before, and with it the lives of the entire company. Hopefully, it would have saved Thorin’s life again, and the manner in which that had been attempted would have been worth the suffering it had caused him. And even if Bilbo’s hope was strong, he still did not like taking that sword back. It did belong to him, however, and Dwalin would not have accepted such a dishonourable refusal.

“How did it go?” asked Bilbo, finally taking a hold of Sting and putting it back in its sheath. His own question sounded a little stupid to him, as if he had not heard enough of how it had gone.

With the troublesome object of torture out of sight, Dwalin gave him a pained glance. “Hardest thing I ever had to do,” he said sighing and moved his gaze back to the battlefield, still smoking here and there.

A moment of silence passed. Bilbo thought fleetingly of asking the big dwarf if he was angry with him because of what Thorin had said, but this was really not the time. There were more important matters to be dealt with and when Bilbo decided to speak again, it was about that. “I got something from the Elves. They say it will help. Do you, do you think he’ll live now?” he asked, looking up at Dwalin.

“I’ve no idea, laddie. We tried.”

“Well, I’d better get this to him,” said Bilbo, lowering his gaze, and Dwalin approved with a grunt.

The smell inside Thorin’s tent was now even harder to bear. He was still lying under his blankets, as if nothing had happened, but at least the remains of his clothes and armour had been put away. Balin was now sitting on a chair near him, dabbing at his forehead with slow movements, using what looked like a relatively clean piece of cloth.

He looked up, raising his eyebrows as he saw Bilbo come in. “Anything?” he asked.

“Yes, here,” said Bilbo, coming closer and handing him the jar. “How is he?”

“He’s been like this since we finished. That was too much pain for anyone to bear. I don’t think he’ll be waking up again very soon.”

“But he will wake up, won’t he?”

“I hope so, laddie, I hope so,” said Balin, with disquieting uncertainty in his eyes.

Bilbo’s gaze fell to the ground, and he bit his lip, holding back more tears. Then he looked back up to Balin, who was dipping the cloth in a bowl of water. Taking a deep breath, he offered, his voice a bit shaky, “I can do that. You should get some rest.”

Balin seemed to appreciate the offer. “Well, we should see about this,” he said, pointing to the jar of elvish ointment, which he had placed on the side of the bed. “What is it exactly?”

“They say it will help him heal faster and it will keep infection away.”

“Hmm, that is not too bad. I will go fetch Oin,” said Balin, standing up and actually smiling a little, gesturing for Bilbo to sit in his place near Thorin’s fevered brow, and handing him the wet cloth.

“Is he still with Fili and Kili?” asked Bilbo as he took his seat.

“Yes.”

“Are they any better?”

“No, but we are hopeful,” said Balin, with a little less uncertainty than before.

As Balin walked out, Bilbo felt grateful to be alone with Thorin for a while and see him properly. His face had been cleaned in the meantime, and he looked more like his regal self again, even if he was cut and bruised and his hair was still drenched in bloody grime. Bilbo resolved to work out a way to wash it off once they were done with his wounds.

In fact, Thorin looked like he was sleeping, much more so than at any other time during the quest. He had always been restless, always stirring at the smallest sign of alarm even when he was supposed to be resting, and someone else was keeping watch. But now he seemed peaceful, removed from the torture he had endured only a while earlier and from the torment that he had carried in his heart for so long. Perhaps this was good reason to hope.

“Thorin?” tried Bilbo softly, gliding his finger over one of the dwarf’s thick eyebrows, the only thing that seemed safe to touch at that moment. “Can you hear me? Thorin!”

There was no answer, however, for Thorin had fallen into a darkness far deeper than sleep, from which it was very possible that he would never return. Bilbo withdrew his hand, feeling a stream of tears flooding his eyes. Perhaps it was foolish to hope, but he needed Thorin to survive. Those words that he had said were making him feel as if he had been groping in the dark all along, as if he had missed something far more valuable than his books and his armchair, than seeing the Elves, than going on adventures, or even than the world itself, something he had not wanted, but without which his life now seemed hollow. If Thorin did not wake up again, that something would have been lost forever, and Bilbo was not sure that he could live with that. Or with the guilt over taking the Arkenstone from its rightful owner when in fact he had been trusted to retrieve it. It had been a last desperate attempt of his own, to avoid war and save all their lives, including Thorin’s. Yet he had achieved nothing but betraying Thorin’s trust, and apparently hurting him more than he could have possibly imagined at that time.

“I’m sorry, I’m so terribly sorry,” he whispered close to the dwarf’s ear, unable to keep himself from trying.

Thorin still did not answer, so Bilbo decided again to wipe his tears and do everything in his power to ensure that he would get a second chance. Remembering that he had a very practical task to perform, he wet the cloth that Balin had handed to him and laid it gently on Thorin’s forehead.

Soon Balin and Oin walked back inside, and Bilbo looked up at them, expectantly.

“You do not have to stay, Bilbo,” said Balin.

“Yes, I do,” said Bilbo, frowning. He had left before, but he could not leave again.

“Very well,” sighed Balin.

“He won’t feel anything, anyway, will he?” asked Bilbo with wide eyes.

Balin smiled faintly, “Not anymore. But you would be able to see.”

“I can handle it as long as he’s alive,” said Bilbo, swallowing hard.

Balin’s smile became wider, “You are indeed a brave little hobbit. It is no wonder that Thorin is so fond of you,” he added with a wink.

If Bilbo had not been so shocked by that remark, he would have stopped to ponder that Balin’s wink was a short reminder that they had shared happier times in the past, and perhaps a sign that there could still be happiness in the future. Thorin’s confession was still troubling to him, and then, there had been Dwalin’s strong reaction. Balin seemed to be thinking about it in approving terms, however. As they looked at each other, one with affection, the other with disbelief, there, near the shattered body of the one that they both loved, wounded so that his survival hung only on a fool’s hope, Bilbo felt that Balin’s remark should have filled him with more anxiety over possibly losing something invaluable. Instead, it filled him with more of that insane hope that it would not end there, and that there was still a chance for something better. 


	2. To the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilbo makes an important decision, Dwalin's loyalty to Thorin is tested, and the Elvenking makes an offering of peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Dwalin is Thorin's lieutenant. Dwalin would never question his leader. We protect each other, and my fierce, unbending loyalty to him is something that I really wanted to get across in the movies." Graham McTavish, AUJ Extended Edition extras  
> "It is as if we are brothers. I imagine that they'd grown up together, riding and fighting, and sort of sparred with each other. You know, when a prince has a confidante that he talks to about everything." Richard Armitage, AUJ Extended Edition extras  
> I've struggled a bit with this, so criticism is more than welcome :) Thank you, and I hope you'll enjoy this chapter.  
> new rewritten version

_No wonder that Thorin is so fond of you._ Balin had really said that, with a smile and one of his twinkling winks, in the smothering dimness of the tent where Thorin lay broken after the battle, and in the wake of such horror as watching his brother burn Thorin's raw wounds with a fire-heated sword, surely even participating in holding him still for the procedure.

Bilbo gaped at him until the lingering silence pushed him to begin a reply that he did not know how to continue. "Well, I-"

"You don't have to say anything," said Balin, peering at him tenderly from under his eyebrows. "And it's all right if you don't look." He turned to Oin, who nodded and opened the jar of elvish ointment.

Bilbo felt relieved that he was not expected to justify his implication in the matter of Thorin’s avowed feelings for him, and further still to watch as they worked on his wounds. He did feel a calling, however, from a depth carved new within him, to stay for the sake of both. He put aside the wet cloth that he had been dabbing Thorin's face with and got up from his seat.

"I want to look," he said and Balin turned to him again with eyes that were softly trying to dissuade him. "I, I need to see," Bilbo insisted.

Balin nodded. An old warrior, he recognized a claim of honour. Bilbo had earned his place in the Company, not as a seasoned fighter, but certainly by proving himself a worthy fellow in arms and adventure. And it seemed that he had earned more than an honourable place in Thorin’s heart. He had a right to see what had been done with his sword to the dwarf that had spoken such binding words to him. He had to know how badly Thorin was injured and what real chance he had for survival.

Ultimately, it was about knowing the whole truth. After all, it had been his thirst for knowledge that had pushed him out the door of Bag End, and beyond the quiet borders of the Shire. He had uncovered much direr things than he had expected, unimaginable violence, death, and stark evil, things that had existed all along even if he had been ignorant of them and that would have continued to exist should he have turned his back on them. But there were other things as well, there were daring hearts beating with no fear of death, iron wills pursuing stubborn dreams, and passions that grew in the shade of words unspoken. Now more than ever, Bilbo sensed the weight of Thorin’s initial opinion of him, that he was soft and inexperienced, that he had no place amongst his companions. He had felt challenged then to prove himself to the haughty dwarf king, to show that he could care about more than the comforts of his own home. With everything that he had accomplished in matters of bravery and wit, he realised now that he had been stupidly blind to something bigger than that. Perhaps there had been signs he should have understood, more he should have read in Thorin’s eyes than gratitude. But Thorin was so hard to read even by a hobbit of Bilbo’s intelligence. He was much older and much more experienced in masking his true thoughts, no doubt a skill he had been compelled to perfect by his important position among his kin. If there had been signs, Bilbo had failed to see them. He owed Thorin that much, to stay with him until the end, whatever form it might have taken, whether it had been death or a new life.

He steadied himself on his feet as Balin began lowering the quilts that were keeping Thorin warm.

"How is your head?" asked the dwarf, glancing at Bilbo.

The hobbit looked at him startled. He had forgotten all about the dull pain in his temple. "Oh, it's fine," he said, lifting his hand tentatively to the bandage wrapped around his forehead.

"Oin seems to have done well enough," said Balin, eying Bilbo's forehead and starting to frown. "Where did you get fresh dressings?" he turned to Oin, a bit accusing.

Oin stared at him confounded.

"It wasn't Oin," muttered Bilbo. "I didn't stop earlier. The elves treated me."

"I see. And I understand. I would not have lingered either if I had been you," said Balin as he continued folding down the quilts.

Bilbo attempted a smile. "I haven't asked," he said. "How are the others?"

"Bruised and battered, but alive," answered Balin, sighing.

The uncovering of Thorin's abused body was now complete, and Bilbo found himself unable to continue the conversation, even if it concerned the state of his friends.

Beneath the blankets, Thorin's entire torso was swathed in what looked like a torn piece of somebody's clothing. If it had been clean to begin with, which was unlikely, it was now impossible to tell, as it was stained with blood, some dried black and some still fresh. There were also bandages all along both of his arms, leaving very little skin visible. Another covered part of Thorin's right thigh.

As Balin began unwrapping Thorin's leg, Bilbo clenched his fists and pinned his chin into his chest, bent on keeping his breathing as regular as possible. It looked like one of the wounds that had been sealed with his sword. It was not bleeding, fresh, exposed muscle, as he had expected, but a reddish patch of swollen flesh, shaped much like an ink blotch on an oddly absorbing piece of paper. The erratic contour made it hard to determine what sort of weapon had caused it.

"What…" murmured Bilbo, his hand quivering as it rose to Thorin's leg.

"Spear," said Balin, strangely calm. "It seems to have gone right through the muscle. There doesn’t appear to be any damage to the bone, so I expect this will heal well."

 _Right through the muscle_. That must have meant that there was a similar burn on the back of his thigh. This was only the first of Thorin’s wounds that he was seeing, and Bilbo already felt a wave of tears swirling in his throat. He looked at Balin, unable to really understand how he could be so matter-of-fact about it, but the dwarf stepped to the side, allowing Oin to approach. Equally composed, Oin proceeded to spread some of the elvish concoction over the wound with careful, competent gestures.

Without lingering on Bilbo’s questioning gaze, Balin started uncovering Thorin's stomach, and the hobbit followed the movements of his hands as if bewitched to crave more and more of the terrible sight they revealed. As the wrap came completely off, his bewitchment faded abruptly, and he leaned against one of the poles sustaining the tent, his hand clasping his mouth and chin. It was difficult to ascertain what exactly had happened to Thorin's body, where one wound ended and where another began. He could see more of the same jagged red marks, but these were more like streaks than blotches, one across his abdomen, one below his breast and a round one on his shoulder. The rest of his chest and his ribcage were a massive bruise speckled with shallower cuts. There were deeper cuts on the length of both of his arms, and another round wound in the thick muscle of his left arm.

Bilbo glanced up at Balin, who looked quite dismal himself. "And these?" he asked, lowering his hand slowly from his mouth.

"He took another spear in the shoulder," said Balin in the same controlled tone of voice. "And these look like sword cuts," he continued, indicating the long, now cauterized gashes. "He was lucky this one didn't pierce his gut, or we would have had nothing to hope for," he said, pointing to the slash over Thorin's stomach. "He was also hit with a mace, several times by the state of his ribs. That's what the bruising is from, they're broken. We're going to have to be very careful when we move him. One wrong step and he could puncture a lung and then it would truly be over."

There was so much damage, so many times Thorin would have had to endure a hot blade being pressed against his already torn flesh. Perhaps his screams of pain had really lasted for as long as Bilbo had imagined, in his deficient hiding place, behind a ruined wall and his own frail hands thrown over his ears. Much too long to be possible in a world he could understand, but it seemed that, at some point, he had crossed into another world, where more suffering was possible than his imagination might have conjured. He struggled to keep the tears from flooding his eyes.

"How can anyone survive this?" asked Bilbo, sniffing loudly.

"Dwarves are sturdy creatures, Bilbo,” replied Balin with a comforting smile. “And the older we get, the harder we are to break. Thorin is strong. He can survive it, if we care for him properly."

Bilbo stared at Balin, still bewildered. The good dwarf appeared to be painfully clinging to his own show of confidence. He stepped gently aside as Oin came forward with his jar and started applying the balm with the same deft movements.

"And how can we know that he's not bleeding inside?"

"We can't. We'll have to hope that he isn't."

Bilbo’s gaze lost focus as it travelled back to Thorin. So much for assessing his real chance to survive. A lot depended on luck and perhaps on a greater force that now held his life in its grip, ready to crush it or save it seemingly without heed for the consequences of either. Bilbo felt abandoned by both, but he was at least grateful that Thorin was unconscious for the moment and couldn't feel any more of the pain inflicted on him.

As he watched his unclothed body marred by injuries, Bilbo couldn’t help feeling that some of them were on him, maybe not those that could be seen, but he had certainly played a part in hurting Thorin by betraying his confidence and taking from him what he desired the most, and what was, after all, his to keep. Thorin was not entirely to blame, and Bilbo was not entirely innocent, not anymore. How could he have turned away now when he had come too far for that?

He winced as a hand lay gently on his shoulder. It was Balin. "He has another cut on his back,” he said “We have to turn him. Can you go to the other side of the bed?"

Bilbo looked to Oin, who was now standing at his side, waiting. He nodded and scrambled to the indicated place. Balin lifted Thorin's left side slowly. "Can you hold him like this?"

"Yes, yes," said Bilbo, and promptly steadied the decline of Thorin's body by gripping the tip of his shoulder and that of his hipbone, two places that looked undamaged enough. His head was lolling to the side, eyes shut tightly in a desolating picture of abandonment to the hands that were holding him from rolling over to the floor. Bilbo became aware that he was touching Thorin's bare skin in areas that were more intimate than a brow or a hand. His fingers immediately perceived the sturdiness of dwarf bodies that Balin had mentioned and it was a reassuring sensation. Still, his hands were very close to cuts and bruises, and he had to restrain an impulse to let go. He had never been in such proximity to someone who was so badly hurt, and certainly not to Thorin. But he had to keep holding him steady while Oin applied the healing ointment to the wound on his back, which he had not seen yet. Another wound, surely of the angry kind. Bilbo leaned forward to peruse it and found with surprise that the urge to pull back did not return. He mustered enough lucidity to determine that it was a long tear across the shoulder, also burned dry, and that, no matter the amount of elvish treatments used, it would have left a definite scar.

Oin soon finished and Bilbo was instructed to keep Thorin in place for a while longer while new dressings were being fashioned from a blanket.

As the two dwarves stepped away to work on their task, Bilbo let go of a deep breath that he had been holding for a long time and looked down at Thorin. His face had not escaped unharmed either. His lower lip was cut and his cheeks were grazed. There was another cut at the base of his hairline, and his hair was very nearly becoming a solid block of mud. He appeared helpless against everything and pale as a waning winter moon. Perhaps this was the moment for Bilbo to show the true measure of his courage, to see Thorin through his darkest hour, to care for him when he could no longer care for himself. It was not the first time he would be doing something out of his usual bounds to preserve Thorin’s life. He had after all jumped in front of an orc for him, never having used a sword and never having really fought anyone before. But Thorin was truly worth fighting for, and that moment had given him a first taste of the hidden power that lay within him. Whatever else it took, he was willing to do it.

Bilbo lifted his eyes as Balin and Oin approached with their newly crafted dressings. They did not look particularly appropriate, but there was nothing else available. Balin spread one on the bed and then gestured for Bilbo to lay Thorin on his back. He watched as his wounds were covered once more and the blankets drawn over him, making it look again as if he was simply sleeping.

"He should be all right for now," said Balin, retreating with a sigh and crossing his hands over his belly. Bilbo smiled faintly. "I'll be outside," he nodded and exited the tent, followed by Oin.

~

Outside, Dwalin was still guarding the entrance to Thorin's tent, his back straight, his arms folded across his chest. He turned to acknowledge his brother as he came at his side.

"For the good of us all, I hope it works," said Balin.

Dwalin resumed his survey of the battlefield, shaking his head. "What is he thinking?" he growled. "He is King under the Mountain now. He has responsibilities. What will he do? Marry the hobbit?"

"He thinks he's dying,” crooned Balin. “And I think we must worry about his life first, and then about whom he will marry."

"I know," snapped Dwalin, looking back to his brother with fire in his eyes. "I know that he could still die and that I may have tortured him for nothing. But that was a daft thing to say."

"Well, I think Bilbo might disagree."

"What did you say?"

"I said that Bilbo might not think it was daft."

"And why should I care about what the hobbit thinks?"

"May I remind you that this hobbit saved us several times and that without him we would not be here?"

"Indeed we would not," muttered Dwalin and looked away, gathering his arms at his back.

"None of this is Bilbo's fault."

"Aye, I knew the hobbit was trouble the moment I saw him," gnarled Dwalin .

"Brother, ultimately it is Thorin's right to decide whom he loves. I believe he has sacrificed enough for the kingdom already. Do you not think that we must grant him at least this liberty after everything that he has done for us?"

"This is no liberty. It is madness. It should not be."

"That is what you think. I see no real harm in it, other than to the sensibilities of some. Thorin already has two heirs that he has been raising almost as his own. Fili and Kili will continue the line of Durin with honour."

"Then you approve!"

"It is not my place to approve or yours to disapprove. You said yourself. He is king. If this is what he wants, we cannot stop him."

"I do not have to like it," snarled Dwalin.

As Balin sighed again deeply, Bilbo slipped past them seemingly with a precise destination in mind.

"Where is he going?" asked Dwalin, making no effort to conceal the note of disdain in his voice.

"He wants to wash Thorin's hair. He's probably looking for water," said Balin, returning a smile to his brother. Dwalin rolled his eyes and scoffed. "You were fairly considerate to him earlier. I think you dislike him less than you would prefer. And you may have saved Thorin's life together. That is no small thing. Give it more time, brother," said Balin squeezing Dwalin's shoulder and walked off.

~

Some time passed before Bilbo returned, stumbling awkwardly, his right side slanting downwards under the pull of a bucket full of water. As he finally reached Thorin’s tent again, where Dwalin was waiting like he was carved in stone, Bilbo released the bucket and looked up at him grieved.

"What do you intend to do with that?" asked Dwalin, regarding him critically from above.

"Thorin's hair is soaked in muck,” said Bilbo, bristling. “It should be washed before it completely dries up."

Dwalin squinted at him as if trying to find a fault in his plan. He uncrossed his arms. "I'll help you," he said, giving Bilbo a hard stare as he bowed to take the bucket. He lifted it easily and stepped inside the tent. The hobbit followed, with a slight roll of his eyes, not really understanding why he was being treated as if he had anything but good intentions.

Reaching Thorin's bed, Dwalin set the bucket down and straightened his back, with a loud sigh. Bilbo tiptoed at his side. He had expected the dwarf to antagonize him further, but Dwalin did not seem intent on talking. He simply stared at Thorin, his countenance wretched. After a few good seconds, he glanced suddenly at Bilbo, wincing as if the hobbit’s growing stare had been jabbing him in the ribs, which were no doubt sore to begin with. Bilbo faltered and looked for something else to set his gaze upon, preferably something as close to the ground as possible.

Dwalin released a low growl. "I swore to protect him with my life," he said. "A fine job I did of it."

Bilbo looked back up, but he didn't know what to say. There was nothing to be said, after all, to quench the regret that was bleeding raw from Dwalin's voice. Nothing that would not have belittled the bond of loyalty between him and Thorin, which Bilbo was sure that he could not begin to fathom in its full depth. He simply returned a sympathetic grimace. "I noticed that you're quite close," he said eventually, feeling instantly stupid.

Dwalin gazed at him with surprising melancholy. "Aye, we grew up together. Trained and fought side by side. We talked about... everything. Or so I thought." Then blame flashed clear in the dwarf's eyes.

Bilbo swallowed hard, trying to free his throat from the suffocating lump that had formed there. This was about him and Thorin’s unsettling last words.

Now he was beginning to see the complete picture. There was more than loyalty binding Dwalin and Thorin together. There were also ties of family and friendship. Dwalin had not only failed to shield his king from death, but also his friend. And now death was there waiting. The end. And at the very end, Thorin had revealed something about himself that had turned everything upside down. Something secret that not even Dwalin had known and that required more time to be explained, to be at least accepted, if not understood, to be integrated into his image of Thorin, which could have never been the same as before. But it could at least have been remade into a new image, different and maybe a little smudged around the edges, but one that Dwalin could live with, that both of them could live with. That would have taken time, precisely the commodity that was in doubt at the moment. All that Dwalin had, there and then, was a bloodied, shattered mess of what he'd believed Thorin to be. And that was no way to part with him.

Bilbo looked again at the floor, at a loss for words. His eyes stopped on the bucket of warm water waiting near the bed, and he remembered that they were there for a reason. "Uh, I think we should," he began and continued by gesturing towards the bucket.

Dwalin jumped a bit at Bilbo’s remark, but his gestures towards Thorin were filled with a calculated concern that seemed to contrast heavily with his gruff appearance and the obvious rift in his sentiments for Thorin. He wedged a careful palm under his head and moved him to the side of the bed, allowing his hair to flow in a muddy waterfall above the cauldron that Bilbo had placed nearby. Then he retreated in silence and allowed the hobbit to approach.

Bilbo retook his seat, leaving Dwalin to his thoughts. Using a chipped metal can, he began pouring water over Thorin's hair, running his hand through it to dislodge the drying grime. His fingers brushed inevitably against Thorin’s forehead and the lobes of his ears, as he tried to divert water from reaching where it did not belong. He had never washed anyone's hair before, but he vaguely remembered his mother washing his. She had always been gentle and mindful of keeping water out of his eyes and ears. And he had always perceived it as a magical time between the two of them, a moment of profound communion. Not that his mother had ever failed to show affection, but her hands kneading carefully in his hair and rinsing it clean had been like a ritual, a solemn promise that she loved him then and she would love him forever. That memory surged to the surface of his mind, fresh and alive, against his ability to stop it. He could also not avoid pondering what it meant for the present, for it undoubtedly meant something, especially after what Thorin had said to him. However, it was getting harder and harder to breathe, let alone think under the heavy scrutiny of Dwalin, who was standing at his side. Something had to be said or done to break that lumbering spell.

Bilbo cleared his throat. "I don't suppose anyone has any soap," he said, half-joking and looking up at the dark looming dwarf.

"You might find some with the elves," answered Dwalin with a great scoff.

Bilbo smiled. "I'm quite sure Thorin would disapprove. It's enough we've had him coated in elvish balm."

Dwalin didn't seem to find any of that amusing, but at least he didn't return another scowl.

"You know what I can't stop thinking of?" continued Bilbo, redirecting his attention to his task.

"Your books and your armchair?" sniped Dwalin.

Bilbo looked at him again, and thought of showing him his own abilities in matters of scoffing. "My garden, actually. The scent of my flowers, to be more precise, on that morning when I ran off into the blue with you."

"No one held an axe over your head." Much like his beloved king and friend, Dwalin could hold a bitter grudge.

"Are you angry with me?" asked Bilbo, stopping what he was doing, pushed beyond his determination to reserve that discussion for later or to not begin it at all.

Dwalin puffed with such pathos that his ragged moustache fluttered, and he turned his head, crossing his arms again over his chest. "No," he eventually grumbled.

"You're angry with him, then."

Dwalin remained shrouded in his defensive gloom for a while, but then the crust of acrimony began to crack. He uncrossed his arms and sighed. "There is something on my mind as well."

"Oh, what?" said Bilbo, a bit relieved, and poured some more water over Thorin's hair.

"Moria."

"The battle, you mean?"

"Indeed. I'd always believed that Thorin was our hope to get back what we'd lost, pride and fortune alike. But when he stood up against Azog with nothing to his defence but an oaken branch and his own spirit, he proved to all who were still alive that he was a great dwarf, and that he could be a great king."

"He still is all that," said Bilbo with a smile. "He still can be a great king."

Dwalin peered at him long from under his eyebrows, slightly reminiscent of his less impetuous brother.

"You don't believe that anymore?"

"Of course I do," conceded Dwalin, but he still sounded like his trust in Thorin had been wounded beyond repair. "Tell me, Bilbo, why did you come back?"

"Uh, what?"

"Thorin treated you harshly the last time you saw him. You had every reason to run back home, where you've wanted to be all along. Why didn't you?"

"I, I was worried about... him, about all of you, really."

"You do not resent his behaviour?"

"But that was not really him, was it? I can't hold a grudge knowing that he was not himself."

"Friendships have been broken for less. And I am no longer sure of what is really him," lamented Dwalin.

"Well, I am. I know he's not an unscrupulous murderer," Bilbo retorted, and Dwalin glanced at him startled.

He studied the hobbit some more. "What did you do to him?" he asked abruptly.

"Excuse me?"

"Did you do something to make him say that?"

"No, of course not. I don't know what I could have done. I, I thought he despised me."

Dwalin growled in his beard. "Not after you jumped in front of that giant orc and saved his life. Not to mention that clever little trick you pulled with the barrels, and the keyhole." Now he was eyeing Bilbo as if all those had been crimes against his very kin. The hobbit opened his mouth but couldn't really speak. "Do you… feel the same?" Dwalin charged again after pausing to give Bilbo a contemptuous once-over, his question sounding like an ultimatum.

Bilbo tried to think of what Dwalin might have liked to hear. Would he have liked Bilbo to give a negative answer and leave no open gate for Thorin's foolish confession to spawn serious consequences should he have woken up? Or would a decisive no have angered him further, as it would have meant a failure to honour Thorin's feelings and therefore a grave insult? Bilbo's own truth was somewhere in between. "I don't know," he said quietly. Dwalin's reaction was of the same grey nature. He drew back with a grunt, but his frown began to relax. "I truly don't know how this happened. I did not expect it. I don't know how to feel, really."

Dwalin looked like he might have continued the conversation if a low rumour had not been growing outside. Bilbo tried to see past his shoulder, and the dwarf glanced back as well. As the breeze of whispers came closer, Dwalin started towards the exit.

Bilbo hurried to finish with the washing of Thorin's hair. It could not truly be called clean in the absence of soap, but at least it was no longer drenched in bloody filth. It had all poured with the water into the cauldron at the foot of the bed, and if the recipient itself had not been coal black to begin with, Bilbo was sure that the sight of its contents would have made his stomach turn once again. He gathered Thorin's dripping locks in his hands and squeezed them in a spiral like laundry to wring out the excess water.

As he got up from his seat to drag the cauldron away, the curtain at the entrance was pulled to the side, and in came Dwalin again, followed by two very tall, meandering figures, who stooped awkwardly to get inside. Bilbo rushed to return Thorin's head to a less unflattering position, then looked up to notice, not with a lack of surprise, that the tall figures were elves and that one of them was none other than Thranduil himself. His forehead drooped into a little bow to Bilbo, which the hobbit returned more amply.

Dwalin was glaring something fierce behind the elves, his gaze seeming to shoot fireballs up at the nape of the Elvenking. Between that and the greatly differing expression on Thranduil's face, Bilbo managed to also notice that the elf king was carrying a sword with him, which he was now holding at both ends in a reverent pose above the ground and under his lowered brow. It was Orcrist, the cleaver-like Elven blade that Thorin had found in the troll cave, and that he had rapidly taken a liking to in spite of its origins. He had not been very happy when it had been taken away, and Bilbo himself had found that particular gesture of the elves to be a bit abusive. Surely, it had been crafted by their kin, but Thorin had not stolen it. He had found it and made it his own. Lord Elrond himself had acknowledged Thorin's ownership of the feared Orcrist and had relinquished it to him with favourable wishes. It was unfair that it be taken away by the Elves of Mirkwood, and yet many things that had happened were unfair.

Thranduil raised his gaze to Bilbo and the hobbit could see something that he had never thought he would see in the eyes of the haughty Elvenking – remorse and desire for reconciliation. "We have come to return to Thorin Oakenshield that which is his own and was taken unjustly from him," he said, offering the sword to the little creature before him.

Bilbo felt more than inappropriate to take it. For one thing, it was sized for Elves. It was big even for Thorin, but at least he had the brawn to wield it. Bilbo was sure that he would struggle just to hold it in a dignified enough manner. Other than that, he didn't really know why Thranduil was not giving it to one of the other important Dwarves. Dwalin was right there. Surely he was a more fitting recipient for such a meaningful gesture. Still, musing over the propriety of the events unfolding din not change the fact that he was being given something for Thorin. It would have been even more inappropriate to refuse. He reached with both hands towards the sheathed blade, which looked less intimidating in the grasp of an elf, and he clenched his fingers fast around its hilt and pointier end. As he held it, he realized that it was indeed too heavy for him. His wrists strained and almost dropped it as Thranduil removed his support. He managed to keep a veiled appearance of self-control as he struggled to lean it against the bed where its rightful owner lay unconscious.

Released from that burden, Bilbo was faced with another. The other elf had handed something to Thranduil, and Thranduil was now on the verge of handing something else to Bilbo. The something was a lump that fit neatly into the elf's hand, bundled in grey fabric. As the fabric was swept aside, light irradiated in its wake and Bilbo found astonished that the Elvenking had revealed the Arkenstone. Rays of gleaming rainbow were waving all around it. It was indeed hard to look upon it and not be seduced.

"You took this. You are the one who must give it back," said Thranduil, stirring Bilbo from his sudden daydream.

"Yes, of course," said Bilbo, feeling his face redden with guilt. He took the stone, covering it back with the grey fabric, and held it close against his chest.

"Are you hopeful that he will survive?" asked Thranduil.

Dwalin took a few steps forward and came to the Elvenking’s side.

"Yes, yes, we are hopeful," answered Bilbo.

"We have brought you some clean sheets and dressings," said Thranduil, turning to the other elf. The latter came forward, carrying a bundle of white fabrics in his arms. Seeing that Bilbo was already occupied, he shoved the bundle into Dwalin's arms, whose eyes shot up at him with unyielding wrath, in spite of the fact that the elf was helping.

"We can offer more assistance," said Thranduil, addressing Dwalin as well. "Should you need it."

Dwalin conceded to return a slight bow of the head.

Thranduil looked back to Bilbo, offering his good-byes, it seemed, and he turned to leave.

"Thank you," called the hobbit behind him.

The Elvenking sketched a thin smile, then walked out of the tent, followed by his companion.

Dwalin glared after them for a good while, and then returned a dark gaze to Bilbo. He rushed toward him, but stopped near Thorin's bed and lifted Orcrist from its leaning stance. He took it and laid it neatly across the bed, at its owner's feet.

Then, he came up to Bilbo, eying the precious bundle in the hobbit's arms. "You had better give that to me," he said gruffly.

Bilbo didn't protest, but handed the stone to him with some hesitation, more under the pressure of Dwalin's stare. It was put with Orcrist, at Thorin's feet, seemingly the only place that could ensure their safety in the after-battle chaos.

Bilbo remembered that he still had something to do. He had managed to place Thorin's head back on his makeshift pillow, but his hair was still wet. Bilbo took one of the pieces of cloth that Thranduil had brought and sat back down next to Thorin's bed. He wrapped it around his head and around the length of his hair, then began to massage gently, trying for a faster dry.

Balin walked in with some gusto. "What was that? Was the Elvenking here?"

"Yes," said Dwalin bitterly. "He brought back Thorin's sword and the Arkenstone. And dressings."

"Oh, I see," said Balin, looking impressed. "Well, we cannot keep him here for too long," he continued, nodding in Thorin's direction. "Or the lads. It's getting cold. We have to get them to the mountain. I'm confident that the Royal Quarters are still intact. We should clean up the best we can, build a fire and get them properly cared for."

"I agree," said Dwalin, his tone noticeably refreshed.

"Bilbo, I trust you'll be all right here by yourself?" asked Balin.

"Aye, he'll manage fine," grumbled Dwalin, at his side.

Bilbo smiled as innocently as he could. "Yes, I'll be all right. And I'm not by myself. I'm with Thorin."

Balin smiled back and Dwalin rolled his eyes. "Do take good care of him until we come back," said Balin with another wink.

Then, they were both gone, but not before Dwalin cast him another dissatisfied look as he walked out of the tent.

Bilbo looked back to Thorin, who was still unknowing of everything around him, of the treatment of his wounds, of his hair being washed, and even of his most precious possessions being returned. He wasn't aware that his life-long friend was disappointed in him and needed him to survive so that he could ask for explanations, or that Bilbo needed a little more time ith him to find out what really lay behind his last words.

"Thorin," he said quietly, caressing the dwarf's bruised forehead. "Please wake up soon. You have a lot of unfinished business to tend to."

 


	3. The Dark Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Gandalf's help, Bilbo begins to face the true nature of his feelings for Thorin. In the meantime, Dwalin revisits the past and reconsiders his loyalty to Thorin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious about the dagger that Dwalin finds in Thorin's room, you can read my story entitled "The Dagger of Durin" :)

As Bilbo stroked Thorin’s slumbering forehead, he wondered uncomfortably what his own gesture meant to himself. Was he simply trying to comfort a suffering friend, or was there more to it than that? He had a fair idea of what it would have looked like to Dwalin. In fact, it was one of Dwalin’s many rattling questions that had pushed him to truly wonder: _Do you feel the same?_ He wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to feel the same as, if he thought well about it. Not that there had been time for careful consideration of any of that morning’s events. He had reacted mostly out of instinct to every challenge set to him. But now that all necessities had been taken care of and he had been left again on his own, his mind naturally slipped to the dark places, where the hard questions lurked, waiting for answers. If only he had not felt so exhausted by everything that had happened to him that morning!

For now, he could only be sure that his hand perceived a mild fever radiating from Thorin’s skin. It was no reason for alarm, however. Bilbo knew better than he liked that Thorin’s wounds were clean and protected. It had to be his body’s natural response to being stabbed, slashed, bashed and burned, and nothing more. Bilbo retrieved the piece of cloth that Balin had given him, bathed it in the bowl of cold water at his side and touched it gently against Thorin’s neck, then wet it once more and placed it on his forehead.

He withdrew his hand with a sigh. His own body was starting to protest that terrible day. A tinge of nausea rose again from his belly, although it was painfully empty, and his head wound began to send bolts of raw pain into his skull. He was actually grateful for the cold creeping in from the outside, as it served to numb his misery a bit. Still, he looked around for an extra quilt. There were none. All of them were piled over Thorin, so Bilbo had to content himself with gathering his coat closer about him.

At that moment, he wished very much that he could have lain down in his own bed at home, and slept off that dreadful dizziness. But he was very far from home, and all he had then and there was the narrow edge of Thorin’s field bed. He stooped against it and folded his arms under his head as the best he could do for a pillow. He shut his eyes, hoping at least for some peace. Instead, in the dark behind his closed lids, his mind was again free to foam with a stifling anguish that went beyond whether Thorin lived or died, to his own possible fate in the aftermath of either event.

Just as he was about to give in to a threatening sob, a light hand clasped his shoulder. Bilbo opened his eyes and looked up into clear pools of wizardly blue. Gandalf. For once, he could not have come at a better time.

“My dear Bilbo,” said the wizard in his infinitely soothing voice, “are you all right?”

Bilbo winced as he straightened up. “Yes, yes. My head hurts a bit, but I’m fine.”

Gandalf studied him as if he hadn’t seen him in years. “You took quite a bump, did you?” he asked, checking the hobbit’s bandaged forehead.

“The Elves took care of it. I should be all right.”

“Well, perhaps you should get some air, and certainly some food and rest. A head wound is not to be taken lightly,” warned Gandalf, reasonably enough.

“I can’t leave Thorin,” lamented Bilbo.

“Hmm, no, I don’t suppose you can.” Gandalf’s voice trailed off with notions unexpressed and his eyes narrowed.

The hobbit felt compelled to explain himself further. “Balin and Dwalin are expecting me to watch him while they prepare a room in Erebor.”

“Of course,” accepted Gandalf.

A claw seemed to close around Bilbo’s throat as the wizard kept fixing him with his scrutinizing gaze. “Uhm, why don’t you have a seat?” he offered, standing up with the impending need to break the spell of it. “I’ll, uh, I’ll just sit on the side here.” He indicated the edge of Thorin’s bed, which he was confident would serve better as seating than it had as a head rest.

“Oh, that’s very kind of you, thank you,” said Gandalf and sat down, genuinely pleased.

Bilbo acknowledged his thanks with a little nod. He already felt better looking at the wizard from the same level, and not from below.

“You must be slightly upset with me,” said Gandalf as he arranged his robes about him.

Bilbo looked at him with questioning eyes.

“Because I left you at the precise moment when the road was getting most dangerous, and then I failed to meet you at the Overlook, as I had promised.”

“Oh, well, things might have been a little different if you had been here, I admit,” said the hobbit, retrieving some of his composure. “But we managed nonetheless.”

“I had no choice,” apologized the wizard.

“I know, I know. The world is bigger than one realm. I understand that now.”

“Indeed,” said Gandalf, smiling sadly. “I’m very proud of you, Bilbo.” His tone was very warm, and it was most likely meant to comfort Bilbo’s visibly frayed nerves.

It had the opposite effect, however, of stirring sleeping pains. “Are you?” he asked, perceiving the note of defiance in his own voice.

The wizard gave him a kind, patient glance. “You have behaved quite admirably on this quest.”

Then why did he feel so miserable, wondered Bilbo. He folded his arms over his chest. “Killing? Stealing? Betraying my friends? You call that admirable?” He deliberately left out lying. There was also the ring in his pocket, which he still could not reveal to the wizard, or to anyone else.

Gandalf gathered his hands in his lap and peered at the hobbit from under his eyebrows. “If you are referring to the incident with the Arkenstone, you cannot be blamed.”

“I cannot be commended either.”

“Thorin could not be reasoned with. You did what you thought was best to avert unnecessary war.”

“And yet I achieved nothing of the sort. War happened anyway, and people still died, and now the lives of my friends are in danger. I made a great mess of it,” said Bilbo, lowering his gaze to the ground.

“Thorin did not seem very upset with you,” said Gandalf with a curl of playfulness in his tone, and Bilbo looked up at him, feeling suddenly energized. “Nor do the others. In fact, you seem to have done more than get used to them and they to you. You have truly made a place for yourself in the Company.”

Bilbo cleared his throat. “Well, we went through a lot together.”

“Indeed. And sharing great perils often forges strong bonds of friendship,” said Gandalf. “I am sure that you and the dwarves will remain friends for a very long time.”

“Yes, I would hope so,” said Bilbo, shifting uncomfortably. The conversation was moving naturally or perhaps it was being steered into the direction that had begun to positively frighten him, but that he knew he had to address. It would have been unwise to deny that he needed counsel. As awkward as he felt to ask directly, it had to be done now. Something told him that the wizard would not be around for much longer. “Gandalf,” he began, his voice weak and quivering, “I need to ask you something.”

“You want to know what I think about what Thorin said to you,” declared Gandalf, sparing Bilbo from the trouble of formulating the question himself.

The hobbit sighed in relief, but even acknowledging the problem as his own was difficult. He drooped his forehead slightly, hoping that it would be interpreted as a nod.

“My opinion is of no relevance there, Bilbo,” replied Gandalf. “Thorin said what he said to you. It is not for me or for anyone other than yourself to have an opinion on that particular matter.”

It was a good answer, but not one that matched Bilbo’s experience that morning. It was his turn to eye the wizard from under his eyebrows. “Dwalin thinks otherwise.”

“Dwalin is very protective of Thorin and of what he represents, as it is only his duty to be,” said Gandalf, seeming to know very well what Bilbo was referring to, which was not entirely unexpected. “Don’t mind him too much. He has nothing against you personally.”

The hobbit sighed and gathered his arms closer around his chest. He had to admit that Dwalin had seemed angrier at the situation itself than at him.

There was one other question that everything else seemed to hinge on, and that was even harder to approach. This time it was not very likely that he would be rescued from it, so he mustered whatever strength he could find and asked, “Do you really think that Thorin meant… more than friendship or gratitude? I mean, he was barely conscious. Couldn’t he have simply not known what he was saying?”

“He seemed quite coherent to me,” countered Gandalf.

“But… how is that possible?” How could Thorin possibly mean the other kind of love? The kind that made people want to spend lifetimes together and raise families. Thinking about it in that way made Bilbo grip the sides of his seat, to reassure himself that he had something to hold on to. He had the nagging feeling that the ground had been pulled from under his feet and he was hovering above a gaping chasm.

“It would not be unheard of, Bilbo,” said the wizard, with an inflection that tried again to appease.

“It is in the Shire,” the hobbit almost whispered.

“Is it unheard of or is it looked upon unfavourably?”

Bilbo mused for a while. Gandalf was right, of course. He had heard occasional rumours of unfamiliar things taking place under the cover of the dark, and he had always gotten the impression that it was not something he wanted to do if he planned to continue viewing himself as a respectable Hobbit.

“Both, I suppose,” he answered uneasily.

“Dwarves tend to be more lenient,” said Gandalf.

“They do?” Indeed, Balin had seemed surprisingly untroubled by the idea of Thorin’s fondness for him being of a nature that surpassed the boundaries of friendship.

“Their women are scarce,” continued the wizard. “Some Dwarves are simply more preoccupied with their crafts, the way some Hobbits find that their true passion lies with food and the smoking of pipe weed.” At this, Bilbo smiled, thinking that he had always suspected his true passion to lie with adventures. “Others look elsewhere.”

“But Thorin is not any Dwarf,” said Bilbo, his apprehension for discussing the subject starting to break. “He’s a king. Shouldn’t he have a princess of his own kin waiting for him somewhere?”

“Not much of Thorin’s life has been what it should have been,” said Gandalf, with an aching smile. “I am not terribly surprised. And neither should you be.”

“I have to say that I am,” murmured Bilbo, pinning his gaze on the wizard.

“Well,” began Gandalf, “I have not been with you for the entire journey, but I suspect that the courage you have shown all along has made an impression. You are not a warrior. And yet you have behaved like one. You had more to overcome than anyone in the Company. You could have turned your back and left, as Thorin expected you to do. After all, it was not your quest. And you already had a home. But you cared enough to stay and see that they reclaimed theirs.”

The hobbit remembered very well the moment when he had made a conscious decision to actually make himself useful. He had just found the ring and had just discovered what it was like to have another life at the tip of his sword, even a life as wretched as Gollum’s. He had run down the slopes of the Misty Mountains after the Company, only to hear Thorin roaring out his resentment, declaring Bilbo a defector, long gone on his way back home. It had made him wonder if perhaps he really did not have more to offer than the dwarves expected of him, and if it would not have been a little selfish of him to abandon them when they needed all the help they could get. He had signed a contract, of course, but he had realised then that there was more than a document and a promised share of the profits that bound him to their quest. “I just, I couldn’t turn my back,” he said. “I could not have lived with myself if I had done that.”

“Precisely,” approved the wizard. “You also have to bear in mind that you have done for Thorin what his own kin would not do.”

Bilbo frowned at him, confused.

“Do you know why you are really here, Bilbo? Have you ever wondered why Thorin did not simply gather a mighty Dwarf army and storm the Mountain?”

“Well, I... I suppose I should have. Why didn’t he do that?”

“There are seven Dwarf families in Middle-Earth, and as the heir of Durin, Thorin should be able to claim their allegiance in defence of Erebor. But they only swore that allegiance to the one who wields the Arkenstone. Save for the twelve other dwarves you have travelled here with, no one else was willing to go on this quest. Thorin asked his cousin Dain for support, but he declined.”

“Dain is here now, though,” observed Bilbo.

“Yes, when the Mountain and its treasure have already been taken, and Thorin’s life is conveniently hanging by a thread, as are the lives of his heirs. You realize now what kind of power lies in the throne of Erebor. As for the wealth that comes with it, you have seen it yourself.”

Bilbo had done more than see the wealth of Erebor. He had roamed across it. He looked darkly at Gandalf now. “If Thorin, Fili and Kili don’t survive, the throne would go to Dain?”

“He is the next in line, yes.”

“That wouldn’t be quite fair, would it?”

“The world is not a fair place, Bilbo,” said Gandalf, shaking his head slightly.

Of course, Bilbo knew that the world was not fair. Still, it did not make things right as they were. His new fears lost their edge in the face of boiling anger. “But Thorin is the one who came all the way here and took back the throne. It would mean that he’s done all this fighting for nothing.” And it was Thorin that he had wanted to help, not Dain.

“Not for nothing. He has reclaimed the kingdom. His people will benefit from that for generations to come.”

“But not him.”

“Not in this world, no.”

“What other world is there?”

“Bilbo, you know better than to ask that.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to continue protesting, but stopped before more of that came out. He composed himself to the best of his abilities. “I just think that he deserves to live his dream. He’s sacrificed so much for it.”

“I agree,” said Gandalf gently.

Bilbo remained quiet for a while, his sight and thoughts losing focus.

“You have grown quite attached to Thorin yourself, haven’t you?” poked the wizard.

Bilbo snapped back into awareness, and straightened his spine. “Well, I, I admire him, of course.”

“Of course, but it would not surprise me if, perhaps, it were more than that on your part as well. Despite all his flaws, he is easy to grow fond of.”

Bilbo smiled, unable to deny the fact that Thorin had his share of wining qualities. “Yes, but…” he struggled for the best way to voice his greatest dilemma yet. And the wizard’s steady gaze on him compelled him to say something. “I don’t know in which way I’m fond of him. I’m sure that I can call you or the other dwarves my friends, but I don’t know what to call Thorin. How can it be something other than friendship? I mean, because we’re both – I’m not -”

“Are you absolutely certain?” asked Gandalf with a twinkle in his eye. “And I’m sure it is also friendship.”

Bilbo’s mouth remained open not only after being interrupted from completing a sentence which he would not have known how to complete, but also because he had not expected to be challenged so openly and easily. He stared, forced to search his past for an answer, preferably an honest one. He did not have much to go on. He remembered a few Hobbit lasses rather affectionately, but it had never been something extremely memorable. On the other hand, he had never met anyone of Thorin’s stirring presence before, man or woman. “Well, I... I’m no longer certain of many things. But I don’t think that this is what my parents would have wanted.”

“Perhaps not, but you are a grown hobbit now. You must make up your own mind about what you want. Besides, I think that what your parents would have truly wanted is for you to be happy.”

Bilbo smiled painfully. “When I was young, I thought that running off into the woods would achieve that. It certainly did not make my mother happy when I’d trail mud all over her carpets.”

“Your mother was a Took,” said Gandalf, raising an eyebrow. “She may not have liked mud on her carpets, but I think she was glad to see that you had a taste for adventure.”

Bilbo swayed his head, looking down. Being young seemed so far away now, and so did the dreams of his youth. “I thought I was simply going on an adventure. Even if I expected it to change me, I did not expect it to end in war, or – ”

“Love?”

It was first the tone of Gandalf’s voice as he pronounced that single word that registered in Bilbo’s ears. Then it was his mellow expression that he perceived with his eyes as he looked upon him. It was neither encouraging, not questioning. It was merely reflecting a reality, as the gleaming surface of a lake might have reflected the stars on a clear night sky.

As hard as it was to accept now that he had such an intimidating name for what had been happening to him all along, the hobbit nodded timidly. “How can that be?”

“No one can explain to you how you feel, Bilbo,” said Gandalf. “Feelings are beyond reason and they can grow beyond our power to control them. It will not be easy and it will require more of that wonderful courage of yours, but you must try to find your own answers as to what your heart desires and why.”

Bilbo’s breathing grew short. He spoke slowly. “Do you think it would be wrong if it desired…” Again, he could not say everything he had in mind.

Gandalf smiled, not really needing to hear everything out loud. “It would only be wrong if you felt so,” he answered. “I also think, Bilbo, that, if true, love is always a gift. And gifts as precious as that should be cherished, not wasted.”

Bilbo hummed, in agreement or alarm, he did not know himself. Then his shoulders slumped under the pull of an invisible but very perceivable weight.

“Well, it seems you have a bit of thinking to do. And I must be going,” said Gandalf, standing up.

“Already?” asked Bilbo, feeling a sudden pang of loneliness.

“I have been summoned to Rivendell for a council,” replied the wizard, visibly displeased with that prospect.

“I see,” said Bilbo, disappointed.

“You will not be coming with me, I suppose.”

Bilbo took some time before he answered. He had expected that, if he lived to see the end of the adventure, he would not linger much on the thought of returning home. “No, not yet, at least. I need to sort this out, and I need to know what will become of Thorin, either way.”

“I understand,” said Gandalf, squeezing the hobbit’s shoulder reassuringly.

“Are you sure there’s no more you can do for him?”

“I’m afraid not. I suspect he’s in much better hands than mine anyway,” said the wizard, winking.

Bilbo felt his cheeks glow in response. He was blushing, and it was unnerving, as it made him feel exposed to his very bones. “Farewell then, I hope to see you again soon,” peeped Bilbo, removing his eyes from the wizard.

“As do I, my dear hobbit,” said Gandalf, caressing his face, and nudging him to look back at him. “There’s no need for you to be embarrassed. Now, if you will allow one last piece of advice, do right by your own heart, and you might even find yourself the hero of a story that needs no embellishment at all.”

Bilbo smiled at him, his interest roused by the promise of that statement. “Are there such stories?”

“There are some, yes, those that speak for themselves,” answered the wizard warmly.

Bilbo was convinced that he would have to discover what exactly that meant on his own. But it seemed like a discovery worth making. He nodded for goodbye, and the wizard exited the tent, leaving him again to his thoughts.

And thoughts he had plenty of, now better shaped than they had been at the beginning of his conversation with Gandalf. He was glad to have gotten his advice, for it had helped him understand more of what had occurred up to that point and of what lay before him still. And understanding always made things easier to deal with.

It seemed that a new challenge had been set to replace the old ones, to search his heart, see whatever he found there for what it was and embrace it, with the same courage that he had faced all the horrors of the wide world with. Yet, that was a challenge that he had to meet unarmed. Swords and magic rings were of no use where there were no dragons or goblins to slay, but only the depths of his own being to fathom. He had already delved deep enough to feel engulfed by darkness from all sides. It appeared as if there was more, and he was faced with a choice between two paths. One was perfectly safe and led to a place he knew well, away from the dark, and back into the soft, welcoming arms of his homeland. The other winded further down into the unknown, and it felt anything but safe, but it held the promise of more adventure. And perhaps, somewhere along the way, a light would begin to shine within the dark and he would feel that he has reached the true end of his journey, an end that might have been less bitter than the one that was apparent at that moment.

~

As Dwalin advanced towards the Royal Quarters of Erebor, his way was illuminated by the torch he carried and those of the other three dwarves behind him: his brother Balin, Dori and Ori. The last time that he had journeyed those halls had been on the morning of the day when the dragon had come. It had been a young morning, and there had been a marked spring in his step. He was eager to see Thorin, and finally give him his special gift. If only he had known then that it was the last time he would make that journey in over a century and half.

The royal wing did not look as discouraging as the rest of the many halls and corridors that they had traversed, most bearing the marks of Smaug’s devastation. There were no signs of ruin here, save for the dust and cobwebs laid by the passage of time.

Reaching the door to Thorin’s chamber, Dwalin opened it with a heavy hand and a heavier sigh. The other three dwarves followed him inside. The room was as he remembered it, only dustier and darker. A single thin stream of natural light descended from the ceiling right over the bed, revealing a gossamer cover of powder.

“Shouldn’t we have more light in here?” asked Dwalin.

“Aye,” said Balin. “We’ll have to send someone to inspect the shafts. They might be caved in. We’ll make do with torches for now.”

“At least the vents seem to be working. It’s not as stuffy as I expected.”

“It could be better, but it’ll do for a while,” said Balin. “Well, we don’t have much time. Dori, Ori, we’ll put the lads in Frerin’s room.”

“Aye,” said Dori. “Should we bring in another bed from one of the other rooms?”

“That would be best.”

As Dori and Ori set off to their task, Dwalin caught his brother looking at him from the corner of his eye.

“We’d better get to work,” said Balin.

Dwalin nodded. This was no time to muse about the past. They had a very practical and immediate job to take care of. And yet it was hard to refuse all the memories that leaped at him from all visible corners of that room, of late-night confidences with the Crown Prince, or dawn-long chatter with all three of his regal cousins. One was now long dead, one was possibly dying, and the other was far away in the Blue Mountains, the only one left to care for her kin, while her sons and her sole remaining brother risked their lives to retake their ancient home.

With a deep sigh, Dwalin set his torch into a holder near Thorin’s bed. His gaze was drawn to the shape of a dagger lying under a blanket of dust on the nightstand. He picked it up and blew it clean, then extracted it from its exquisitely crafted scabbard, revealing a brand new blade. He knew that dagger well.

“I gave this to him on that morning,” said Dwalin, feeling much as if the knife was making its maiden stab from a distance through his chest. And it cut sharply and deeply, as he expected from a fine Dwarven blade made in the Forges of the Lonely Mountain. “He’d gotten so grim about the shadow that hung over the King. I thought a gift might cheer him up.”

Balin smiled. “And did it?”

“Not for long,” muttered Dwalin.

“You can give it to him again when he wakes up,” said Balin, grasping the bed cover. “And perhaps the joy will last longer this time.”

At this Dwalin smirked. “Now I understand why.”

“Why what?”

“When we went off on errands together and we’d stop at an inn, there were women. He never showed much interest. I’d ask, and he’d say that he had too much on his mind.”

“Well, he did have a lot on his mind. You know that he’s always taken his duties seriously. I doubt that after the dragon fire he really had any heart for things of that sort,” said Balin, cocking an eyebrow.

“Or perhaps he would have preferred to go with some of the lads,” Dwalin bit back.

“We don’t know that. And if he had, what then?” Balin abandoned the making of the bed and planted his hands on his hips.

“I would have liked to know at least.”

“Does it really make a difference? I would have still followed him to the death if necessary. Would you have not?”

“Of course I would have,” answered Dwalin, looking sideways.

“Then that’s all you need to think about,” said Balin, wiggling a finger at his brother. “Now, if you can go find something to build a fire with, it would be more useful than having this conversation.”

Dwalin restrained a growl, lowered his head and stepped away towards the door. Before walking out of the room, he looked back to his older and more temperate brother. Balin appeared completely at ease with Thorin’s attachment to the hobbit. For Dwalin, it was not that easy. Something had broken inside of him, and, at that moment, he saw no simple way to mend it. He did care for Thorin still, perhaps even more fiercely than before. It was much like battle. The pain of being wounded always made him strike harder. Now it strengthened his determination to ensure that Thorin lived to be King, and that his sister Dis did not have to face any more tragedy.


	4. Ruins

With Gandalf gone, Bilbo started to feel that the world was closing in on him. He had been quick to affirm to Balin and Dwalin that he was not alone in the dim tent as long as Thorin was there, but now his assuredness faltered. Thorin was there in body, hardly whole in itself, but not in spirit. There was no one to talk to, and no one that could answer. Further to Bilbo’s distress, he could not say that he regretted that particular state of affairs entirely. Part of him was relieved that Thorin was not conscious, for he would have hardly known what to say to him. The other part was afraid that he would stay that way forever.

Bilbo realized that he had been standing over Thorin’s bed, staring at the wounded dwarf, or rather through him, since the wizard had left. He was not sure how long it had been, but he was yanked out of his thoughts by a sudden dizzy spell and a shudder shooting through his body, from his toes to his head. He knew what that was. It wasn’t just being tired, or lonely, or underdressed for the winter season. He was coming down with a fever, which was not exactly a great surprise.

Bilbo sat down and extended his hands towards the waning candle at his side. His fingers almost blistered before he felt warm enough to take them away. He looked around for another candle to replace the dying one and saw that there was only one other left. He lit it carefully and made the replacement. He hoped that Balin and Dwalin would return soon, and they would be able to move to the Mountain before this last candle expired and before his fever got much worse. Something within him reeled at the thought of going back into Erebor, but he knew that he could count on a warm place to sleep at least. And maybe the dark of the mountain kingdom would help him forget about everything for a while.

As he mused so, the corner of his eye caught a shadow blocking the light coming in through the folds of the tent. He turned eagerly, thinking that Balin and Dwalin had returned, but the shadow belonged to someone else - another dwarf, by the bulky shape of his silhouette.

The visitor advanced until the light from the single remaining torch revealed his features. It was Dain, Thorin’s mighty cousin and Lord in the Iron Hills. Bilbo had only seen him briefly, from afar, but even so the sight of Dain and his five hundred dwarves, with their heavy armours and large, iron axes had convinced him of the fearsome power that a Dwarf army could muster. Now that he could look closely upon Dain Ironfoot, he felt himself growing smaller under his wild stare, of a murky colour that was difficult to name, and sparkling oddly with the lingering thirst for Orc blood. His wide, boulder-like frame gave him the distinct look of being ready to crush anything that came his way. Bilbo caught an impulse to draw back as the dwarf advanced towards him. He remembered being intimidated by Thorin when they had first met, but not in that way.

“Master Hobbit,” spoke Dain in a low, rough tone, probably strained by battle, “I understand that you have had a decisive hand in all of this.”

Bilbo blinked a few times, pressed to react to this strange statement. “I, uh, I don’t -”

“Come, now, Master Hobbit, don’t be modest. I hear you have helped my cousin take back the Mountain. We have much to thank you for.”

“Well, I - ”

“You look tired and hungry. Why don’t you come over to my tent, so you can get food and rest aplenty?” offered Dain.

“Thank you, but I was left to watch over Thorin,” said Bilbo, finally retrieving his words.

“I have posted guards outside. You need not worry yourself.”

“I think I would rather stay.”

“Very well,” Dain relented. “I did not know that Hobbits had such a sense of loyalty.”

That last remark sounded mocking to Bilbo’s ears. “We do,” he answered, a little flustered, “when loyalty has been earned.”

“I see,” snarled Dain, narrowing his eyes. “I would have thought that you resented my cousin for banishing you.”

“We have resolved our differences in the meantime,” said Bilbo decidedly.

“What about the Arkenstone? Have you returned it?”

Bilbo weighed his response carefully. For a reason he could not really justify, he found it suspicious that Dain should have sought the whereabouts of the Arkenstone. It was not unreasonable for him to be concerned with that. He was a Dwarf lord from the line of Durin, an heir to the throne of Erebor himself, and so an heirloom as important as the King’s Jewel would have rightfully preoccupied him. Perhaps Dain’s lineage was the very reason for Bilbo’s suspicion. The wealth and power of the King under the Mountain were within his very grasp, and the Arkenstone would have only made that grasp stronger.

“I… have not,” answered Bilbo, sticking his nose up a bit and clasping his hands at his back in a slightly defying pose. He did not intend to volunteer the information that the Elvenking himself had returned the Arkenstone and that it was in the same room with them, hidden under the blankets at Thorin’s feet.

Dain did not look happy with Bilbo’s answer, or with his attitude. But he also did not seem comfortable taking his inquiry further. He realized probably that it would have looked too much like interrogation. He could not risk exposing his desire for Thorin’s crown to the little creature before him. It would have been distasteful, and dangerous.

After eyeing Bilbo fiercely for a few good seconds while he turned these thoughts in his mind, appearing further irritated by the fact that the hobbit did not look away in fright, he turned his gaze to Thorin. “How is he doing?” he asked, all the unspoken rancour coming out inevitably in his tone.

That was a question that Bilbo could answer more easily. “Dwalin stopped the bleeding, but he has been unconscious since then. Still, we hope for the best.”

“You must also always prepare for the worst, Master… Baggins, is it?” Dain turned abruptly again to Bilbo. His stare was gleaming with threat.

“Yes,” said Bilbo, a little more intimidated this time.

This seemed to please Dain, as he straightened his back and relaxed the features of his face. “Well, let us hope that my cousin makes a speedy recovery.” His voice had also come down to a less heated tone. “But if he doesn’t, I will personally see that you get your promised share of the gold.”

Bilbo was not entirely surprised by the direction that Dain was giving to their conversation. He felt somewhat appeased by the predictability of that statement, and by the fact that Dain seemed to have calmed down. “I would rather not think of that for the time being,” he answered evenly.

“You do not value gold?”

“I value life above it.”

“Of course, as do we. Well then, I should take my leave. Remember that my door is open to you, should you want anything,” said Dain with a smile that barely hung on one corner of his mouth. He looked like the kind of Dwarf that laughed more heartily and more often than Thorin, but he seemed less generous with smiles that did not seek to communicate one hidden meaning or another.

Bilbo chose to keep his thoughts from showing on his face. He had become quite skilled at that particular task along the journey. He simply bowed his head slightly, saying, “My Lord.”

Dain appeared content with that reaction and walked out of the tent. Bilbo lifted his gaze after him, but only caught the flaps of the tent fluttering in his wake. He realized that he had been keeping his right hand knit into a tight, painful fist all the while that he had been talking to Dain. It was the hand that he trusted the most for practical duties, from writing to sword fighting. He looked down at his fist and slowly released it. It was not grasping anything, as his sword was not on him. It resided on the table near Thorin’s bed. It was all for the better, as it probably would not have made a very good impression with Dain if he had been holding on to the hilt of his sword for dear life while talking with him. The conversation had been tense enough without an open act of defiance, as silly as it would have been for a Hobbit to raise a Hobbit-sized sword against a great Dwarf warrior.

Bilbo turned to look at Thorin. He was very pale, and it was impossible to tell if he was breathing or not by the faint light in the tent. Just to make sure, Bilbo went closer and placed his fingers against the dwarf’s lower neck. Although his touch was firm enough, he couldn’t feel anything at first. He surprised himself by not hesitating. He slid his fingers around the soft dent between Thorin’s neck and collarbone until he finally found a pulse, not terribly vigorous, but steady.

Bilbo let out a sigh of relief and fell back on his chair, his head drooping over his chest. He sat there for a while, with his eyes closed. His head buzzed with the cold that was taking over him, but the fog that settled over his mind, dimming his thoughts, was strangely welcome.

When Balin and Dwalin finally returned, Bilbo was in danger of falling asleep sitting down. He looked up to the sound of voices approaching and saw that the two brothers were not exuding much more stamina as they walked in. Balin looked a little out of breath, and Dwalin’s anger seemed to have faded into mere moroseness. He gave Bilbo a tired glance, without saying anything.

“Everything in order?” asked Balin, panting slightly.

Bilbo nodded once, and stood up from his seat. “Dain paid a visit,” he said, unable to keep his tone neutral.

“About time,” said Balin, with a raised eyebrow, and glanced at his brother.

Dwalin glanced back with a small smirk. “What did he have to say?” he asked, looking at the hobbit.

Bilbo found himself again forced to consider his words carefully. He didn’t think it was wise to tell Dwalin about Dain’s interest in the Arkenstone or about the fact that he had promised Bilbo his share of Erebor’s treasure over Thorin’s head. “He... offered me food and rest,” he answered eventually.

“I see you’re still here,” poked Dwalin.

“I told him I had a previous commitment,” responded Bilbo promptly.

Dwalin looked aside, marking the end of that conversation as far as he was concerned.

“Well,” Balin intervened, gathering his hands at his front., “it will be getting dark soon. We should start moving.”

“I’ll go tell the others,” replied Dwalin and stepped out.

Alone with Balin, Bilbo felt free to speak his true mind on the Lord from the Iron Hills. “Balin,” he began, “perhaps I’m wrong, but it did not seem to me that Dain is as interested in Thorin’s wellbeing as we are.”

The old dwarf looked at him in a way that made Bilbo fear that he had offended him. Then, a little smile told him that he had not. “Now, Bilbo, that is a harsh judgement,” he said in a mildly scolding tone.

“I, I know,” said Bilbo, shrinking a bit with shame.

“What did he say to you to make you think that?” Balin inquired further.

Bilbo looked back up, encouraged by Balin’s genuine interest in his concerns. “He... inquired about the Arkenstone. And he said that, if Thorin didn’t recover, he would personally see that I got my share of the gold.”

“Well, that was to be expected,” replied Balin, without any perceivable note of alarm in his countenance. “Dain is within his right to plan for the possibility that he would become King. That does not mean that he doesn’t wish for Thorin to survive.”

“But he does want to become King,” ventured Bilbo.

“Any Dwarf of Dain’s birth and deeds would,” responded Balin.

Bilbo smiled at him, unable to deny the sense behind the dwarf’s words. Perhaps he had been too quick to judge Dain’s intentions. Perhaps he himself was still too much under the spell of battle, and his senses were mistakenly registering threats where there were none.

“You do look like you need some food and rest,” teased Balin, smiling back.

Bilbo shrugged. “Don’t we all?”

Balin raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. We will take care of that once we get back to the Mountain. You are coming with us, I trust?”

“Yes, I am,” said Bilbo, sighing.

“You don’t have to, of course,” said Balin.

“I am sure that Gandalf will gladly take you back home if that is your wish.”

“Gandalf has already left.”

“Oh, has he?”

“Yes. We spoke earlier. He is needed in Rivendell, apparently.”

“I see. Well, it will be a while before we can call Erebor a comfortable home again, but you’re welcome to stay nonetheless, for as long as you like,” offered Balin, kindly.

Bilbo smiled back in thanks, then glanced to Thorin.

“We should get him ready,” said Balin, catching on.

Bilbo acknowledged with a nod. “We’ll need a stretcher, I suppose.”

“Aye, we asked Gloin to see that three are put together by the time we came back. I trust that they are done.”

Balin had barely finished his sentence, when Dwalin walked back in, hauling a sturdy-looking stretcher. “It’s done,” he said. “Are you ready here?”

“Almost,” said Balin. “Let me check our handiwork first.” He winked at Bilbo, and it made the hobbit blush rather violently. He could feel it in the way his cheeks had suddenly caught fire. He was quite grateful that the light in the tent was of a deep orange hue to begin with. He hoped that the colour of his cheeks would not stand out too much to Dwalin, who was again staring at him fiercely.

Balin was, of course, referring to Thorin’s bandages, which Bilbo had helped with earlier. The older dwarf went over to Thorin and slowly peeled all the blankets off of him. He hummed approvingly as he inspected his bundled wounds.

In the meantime, Dwalin had laid down the stretcher and proceeded to retrieve Orcrist and the Arkenstone from under Thorin’s blankets. He strapped the sword to his back, the way Thorin wore it, and slipped the stone into his trouser pocket. Then he looked at his brother inquisitively.

Balin nodded to him and said, “All right, we can move him. But we’ll have to be very careful, with his chest in particular. We don’t know if his ribs are completely broken. If they are, they might snap out of place, and we don’t want to add that to our problems, or his.”

“Agreed,” said Dwalin. “I’ll support his back. I’m stronger.”

They exchanged places. Bilbo watched as the two brothers gently moved Thorin from his bed to the stretcher, Dwalin using all of his indeed remarkable strength to keep Thorin’s body stable enough as to not jostle his injuries. His gestures were again almost tender. So were Balin’s, and it was obvious to Bilbo that their concern was not only for a friend or for a king. It was for both of those things, and more, much more.

After they had set Thorin down onto the stretcher, Balin and Dwalin took the blankets from the bed and spread them back over his body, then tucked the edges under his sides.

Balin straightened his back, planting his hands on his hips. “This should do. Bilbo, you want to gather your things?”

Bilbo looked at him confused. Besides his sword and the little clothing that he was wearing, he didn’t know what other things he could call his own in that time and place. “Uh,” he glanced around. “Yes,” he said, locating the sword. He collected it and put it back around his waist. “I’m ready,” he nodded.

“You can hold this,” said Dwalin, a bit abruptly, handing him the torch that had been lighting the tent.

Bilbo received it without protesting, and followed them as they lifted Thorin from the ground and walked out of the tent. It was a chill, overcast dusk, warmer than Bilbo had expected it, a sure sign that it would soon start to snow. He still felt the need to gather the lapels of his coat around his neck, but the cold air was pleasantly refreshing. He looked towards the other tent uphill from Thorin’s where he knew that Fili and Kili lay wounded. They were already being carried outside on their own stretchers, Fili by Bofur and Bifur, and Kili by Gloin and Oin. Nori and Bombur accompanied them with two more torches.

Balin and Dwalin did not stop to wait for the others. They started steadily towards the mountain. A call from Balin made Bilbo snap out of his musings and spring after them, gripping his torch with as much strength as he still had. It was large and heavy for him, but he enjoyed having a considerably sized flame so close to his freezing nose and cheeks. Bilbo did not really feel like going anywhere, and certainly not like undertaking a journey through the cold, lowering darkness. He was more tired than he ever remembered being, in body as well as in mind. He was starving without actually feeling hungry. And he had a worsening cold that he could perceive penetrating his very bones now that he had to make the effort of walking and carrying a heavy object, using an arm and two legs that felt more and more brittle. All he wanted was to crawl somewhere under a warm blanket, into a soft bed, and give himself entirely to sleep. Yet, he really could not do that, at least not at that time, as he was needed awake and able by his Dwarf friends. He had become used to foregoing his old needs for comfort as well as to braving situations that he did not feel entirely prepared or equipped for. Still hoping that they would reach their destination before the fever defeated him completely, Bilbo marched on at the side of Balin and Dwalin, lighting their way as they advanced towards the Great Door of Erebor. He could not see a lot of where he was going, as the open flame of the torch scorched his eyesight, and he inevitably tripped over stones every now and then, but he relied on the thought that he had to stay with Balin and Dwalin, and follow them whatever path they took.

Not long after they had left the camp, it had grown completely dark, and the snow had begun to fall in large, wool-like flakes. Despite the heaviness in his legs, and the lingering apprehension that his days of unrest were far from over, Bilbo felt relieved to leave the bloody, foul-smelling, makeshift world of the battle camp, and head into the sturdier realm of the Kingdom under the Mountain. Strangely enough, all he could think about as he walked through the snow and the dark, was the Shire, where winter had not yet set in. It was still late autumn, with trees shedding the last of their leaves, with mornings becoming chilly and foggy, but days still being warm and pleasant at high noon. He could not help wondering how his neighbours’ crops had turned out that year, whether their little ones had grown remarkably, and whether his own beloved hole in the ground had weathered in his absence. All of these reflections felt as natural to him as they were impractical and out of place in that frozen, barren land far to the East from the Shire. It seemed impossible not to think of his own home as he accompanied the dwarves on this last march towards the black wall of the Mountain. That was their home, the one that he had promised to help them take back, and he had kept his promise.

If anyone could understand the joy of having a home, it was Bilbo, but now he felt only sadness at the thought of the sacrifice that Erebor had been recovered with, of the lost lives, the broken bodies, and the wounded souls. Although his own family had not been spared of tragedy, the memory of his home conjured up thoughts of warmth, and comfort, and appetizing smells, not of smoke and blood and cries of death. For Thorin’s dwarves, things were obviously very different and, at that point, it was hard for Bilbo to imagine laughter and the scent of breakfast filling the devastated halls of Erebor, or the golden light that Thorin had spoken of when they had first entered the Mountain, before he had succumbed to madness, and before the war.

After what seemed like an interminable voyage through the thickening snow, they finally came up to the Great Door. A gaping hole was a more proper way to refer to it at that moment, as the door itself had been blown out of its hinges and burned by the invading dragon. They stepped inside, where it was a bit warmer and certainly drier.

They walked among the fallen pillars and bridges of the city, with Bilbo’s torch illuminating their way. The torches behind him also made some of the surroundings visible, but it felt very much as if they were walking in a cocoon of fragile light, with darkness closing in on them from all sides, and yet more darkness waiting ahead. Bilbo perceived now with added pressure the weight of Thorin’s last words to him, as few as they had been meaningful. It was harder to ignore who it was that had said those words to him while walking through his ruined kingdom. Ruined as it was, it was finally his again, his to keep and rebuild and rule over as the great king that he was. And this great king loved him, Bilbo Baggins, of all people. All the questions that he had put to Gandalf earlier, and all the answers that he had gotten tumbled back into his consciousness, in a wave of crippling realisations. He gasped for air, feeling as if there were pillars and bridges crumbling within himself.

His grasp on the torch that he was carrying faltered, but a saving hand steadied his arm before he could drop it to the ground. “Are you all right, laddie?” came Balin’s voice from the side.

Bilbo looked at him disoriented, unable to utter an answer right away. “I, I’m fine,” he said with difficulty, shaking his head a bit, trying to get back a sense of balance.

“Do you need to rest for a while?” asked Balin.

“No, no,” said Bilbo in a nasal voice. His cold had caught up with him. Walking through the snow and through the draughty halls of Erebor had not helped either. “I can walk.”

“We’re almost there now,” said Balin, smiling and releasing his arm after squeezing his wrist for reassurance.

Bilbo smiled back uneasily, but resumed his walk, trying to breathe regularly. He wondered where he was really headed, and what he was getting himself into, and most of all how he would face whatever it was that Thorin expected of him. Perhaps it was untimely to think of that, but he did think of it nonetheless.

Their path soon winded to a part of the Mountain that Bilbo recognized less and less. They advanced through corridors bearing much less evidence of destruction. There were cracks in the walls, but they became thinner and thinner until they disappeared completely. Bilbo surmised that this was the passageway to the Royal Quarters, strategically placed so as to withstand a major attack on the Mountain. Thankfully, it would not be much longer before he could finally let himself go.

They came to an archway carved with the dwarven patterns and runes that Bilbo had become accustomed to but that he could not really read. The archway opened into another corridor, wider and taller than the one they had just left. They passed a few more doors until they stopped in front of one of them. It revealed a spacious chamber lit by a few torches set into holders near the walls. Bilbo could make out a couch, a few armchairs and a small table, which told him that it was most probably a sitting room. They walked on until they reached another door. This one opened into a smaller room, which in spite of its having been deserted for over a century, looked much cosier than Bilbo had ever expected of a room made by Dwarves. The ceiling was lower and so it did not seem very imposing. There was a large bed in the middle and a generous fire burning in a hearth. This could only be Thorin’s bedroom from when he had been a young prince in Erebor. It was nice and warm inside, and Bilbo felt that the clouds of anxiety were slowly beginning to lift from his mind.

He watched in a bit of a daze as Balin and Dwalin set the stretcher on the floor and carefully lifted Thorin to his bed. Then, Balin came to him with a tired smile, took the torch from his hand and placed it in a holder similar to the ones in the previous chamber. The room was lit well enough by two more lanterns placed on each of the nightstands to the left and right of the bed.

“I’m sorry, Bilbo, we did not have time to prepare a bed for you,” said Balin. “But I think you’ll be comfortable in this armchair for now,” he indicated a large velvet armchair near Thorin’s bed. “I promise we will get you a bed tomorrow.”

“This is fine, thank you,” Bilbo accepted, thinking inevitably back to his own armchair in Bag End that he was so fond of. It was smaller, of course, and less lavish, but he had spent many quiet evenings in it, reading and dreaming about faraway lands.

“I’ll get you a pillow and a blanket,” said Balin and started towards the corner of the room where the dark shape of a big chest of drawers loomed. “Oh, and I can bring you some hot water if you want to wash,” he called, turning his head. “I regret that the tub is not usable for the moment, but we will take care of that tomorrow as well. And then you can take a proper bath.”

“That would be most welcome, thank you,” said Bilbo as the dwarf returned with a warm-looking quilt and a medium-sized pillow, which he fluffed up before placing both items on the armchair.

“All right,” said Balin. “You should also change out of those clothes. I’ll see if I can find something clean and small enough for you.”

Then he went away again to rummage some more in the great chest of drawers. Bilbo looked around in the meantime. He could distinguish near the torch set in the wall a pair of thick curtains draping over a rectangle. It appeared to be a window, but he could not really see how there could be windows so deep within the mountain as he assumed that they were then.

He looked towards Balin as he came back with a small bundle of dark-coloured garments in his arms. “Balin, what is that?” asked Bilbo, pointing towards the curtains.

“It’s a window,” said Balin, winking.

“In here?”

“It’s not really a window to the outside, as you have them,” explained the dwarf. “It is the opening of a shaft that leads to the outside. There is a slab of a special crystal mounted into the opening as a piece of glass would be mounted into a window frame. The crystal channels sunlight into the room.”

Bilbo smiled widely, forgetting that he was ill and exhausted. He had to admit that Erebor held many more pleasant surprises than unpleasant ones. “What about moonlight?” he asked, remembering the Moon Runes on Thorin’s map.

Balin nodded. “Oh, yes. Full moon nights can be quite magical, if you leave the curtains open.”

“I can imagine,” mused Bilbo, gazing towards the covered window and wishing that it had been a full moon night with a clear sky at that very moment.

“Well,” interrupted Balin, “we can discuss Erebor’s architecture another time.”

Bilbo looked back to Balin, who presented him with the small bundle of clothes that he had been holding in his arms. “I’ve found some things that I think might fit you. These belonged to Thorin, when he was much younger,” said Balin raising a bushy eyebrow, and Bilbo could not help laughing a little. “I will get you the water as well.”

Bilbo took the garments and thanked Balin for his hospitality. As terrible as that day had been, he felt almost at peace for the first time in many, many weeks. He followed Balin’s directions to the bathroom, eager to get out of the dirty rags that he was wearing, and especially to wash off the traces of what he hoped to have been the last battle in his life. The fabric of Thorin’s old clothes felt soft and comfortable to his fingers, and he could think of nothing more restful at that point than the caress of warm water and lovely, thick wool against his skin. He wondered briefly at the fact that the fabrics had withstood the passing of more than a century so well. The room must have remained very dry and free of bugs, or perhaps the chest of drawers was simply impenetrable.

The bathroom was much larger than what he had at home, all beautiful green marble like the rest of Erebor, polished exquisitely. There was a large tub and a square washing basin adorned with more dwarven patterns. There was also a stone bench, which Bilbo set his change of clothes on until Balin returned with a bucket full of steaming water.

“Here you are,” said Balin, putting down the bucket. “You will find soaps and towels in that cabinet near the basin,” he indicated a tall cabinet that Bilbo had not noticed before.

Bilbo nodded in thanks and waited for Balin to leave. He wasted no time in removing his apparel, taking care only with the mithril shirt that Thorin had given to him, which he folded neatly and placed aside. Sore as he was all over, he had been much luckier than the Dwarf King. His skin was free of any signs of abuse where the shirt had protected him. He had a few bruises on his arms and legs, and there was the bump in his forehead, but he was very much in one piece otherwise. He washed and dressed in Thorin’s old clothes, not without feeling strangely melancholic about it. They were a decent fit, if only a bit loose. Their bodies were apparently different enough for a young Dwarf’s clothes not to fit a grown Hobbit perfectly, but he was cleaner and more comfortable than he had been in a long time.

Returning to the bedroom, Bilbo found Balin and Oin still there, hovering over Thorin.

Balin seemed to catch a glimpse of him from the corner of his eye. “Ah, you’re done,” he said, straightening his back and turning to Bilbo. “I’ve brought you something to eat. Dain carried plenty of provisions with him from the Iron Hills,” said Balin, indicating a steaming bowl on the nightstand near the armchair where Bilbo was supposed to sleep.

“Oh, thank you,” said Bilbo, instantly wanting to devour whatever was in the bowl. He went to take it from the nightstand and as he was about to pick it up, he noticed something rather peculiar just next to the bowl. A cup of tea, resting atop a rectangular iron container with a handle made of polished stone. The cup was placed on a small grate set into the open top of the container and the red glow of burning coals was visible underneath. “What is this?” asked Bilbo, sensing that he would be asking that question a lot at least for a while.

“Oh, that’s your tea,” said Balin. “Oin made it for you. It’ll help with your cold. But have your supper first.”

That was not exactly the answer that Bilbo was expecting, but he smiled to himself and collected his bowl of food. He sat in his armchair, covered himself up with the quilt that Balin had given him and began eating. It was a rich stew that tasted like the most delicious thing he had ever eaten. There was a great deal of meat in it, and not a lot of vegetables, but he was not about to complain.

As Bilbo ate his supper, Balin and Oin removed the bandage wrapped around Thorin’s broken ribs. He could see from where he was sitting that it revealed some heavy bruising.

“Why are you taking that off?” asked Bilbo.

“He’ll heal better without it,” answered Balin.

“But I thought that broken ribs had to be wrapped.”

“Well,” said Balin, “we have noticed that wrapping does more harm than good, in fact. Thorin will be able to breathe better this way, and if he breathes properly, we can hope that there will be no further complications.”

“I see,” replied Bilbo, and took another gulp of his tasty stew. He trusted that Dwarves had more experience in repairing broken ribs than Hobbits did. The sight of Thorin’s bruised ribcage had nearly left him without an appetite, but hearing Balin’s confident answer to his question avoided that at the last minute.

He finished his stew and then retrieved the cup of tea from its strange but ingenious holder. It had been kept hot by the coals, and the steam rising from it invaded his nostrils, making him feel that he also had hope to breathe better in the very near future. The tea did not taste bad, and he sipped from it quietly. He did not really know when sleep had become merciless, but he did manage to place the cup back on the nightstand. Then he drifted into the kind of defeated slumber that exhaustion, worry and illness tended to bring to a poor soul when there was finally reason to feel a little safe.


	5. Nightfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo reaches the end of his resilience as he keeps bedside vigil of Thorin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, chapter 5 is up! 
> 
> Thank you to all those who are reading and have left me lovely comments! It's so good to know I'm not writing just for myself.
> 
> I'm sorry it has taken me so long to update, but I hope this chapter is worth the wait, at least a little. It's a bit longer than usual, but I hope you'll bear with me. Couldn't really make it any shorter without losing the story.
> 
> As always, your comments are more then welcome, so do let me know what you think! Hope you like it!
> 
> Oh, and Dwalin's sequence is inspired by what Graham McTavish said about his character's take on Thorin's death at HobbitCon 3 this year :)

Though deep, Bilbo’s sleep did not remain untroubled. Perhaps it was the very depth of it that caused him to descend into that dark dream.

He was back behind the fortified wall that the dwarves had improvised out of fallen rocks to keep thieves out of Erebor, with the rest of the Company, and with Thorin. Or against Thorin, if he thought well about it. It had been a while since the dwarf that they all knew was no longer really with them. He had closed himself off in his shroud of grief and delusion, and had turned away from all of them, thinking them traitors. All but Bilbo. And Bilbo was now the one announcing to Thorin that he had withheld the Arkenstone from him, despite all of his bone-chilling warnings, and that he had given it to Thranduil and Bard to barter for what they claimed to be theirs of the treasure.

In Thorin’s eyes, realization dawned black and betrayed trust turned swiftly into anger. He called Bilbo something quite unsavoury. Then he roared to the others to throw him from the rampart. But there was no one there. They had all vanished. It was just him and Thorin under the low, billowing clouds, and the dwarf’s grey-blue eyes sparkled with a terrible thirst for revenge.

He swooped upon the hobbit without warning and his hands grabbed a strong hold of the lapels of his coat, yanking him implacably towards the edge of Erebor’s rampart and towards his doom. Bilbo tried planting his heels into the stone and his fingers clutched desperately at Thorin’s iron wrists, but there was nothing that he could do to resist their pull. Half of his body was now hanging over the wall, and Thorin’s hold on him was the only thing that kept him from falling. They had been in this situation once before when Thorin’s firm grip had kept him from tumbling down the rocky slopes of the Misty Mountains.

“No, Thorin, no,” Bilbo pleaded under his breath, looking deep into Thorin’s hollowed eyes and hoping against what his quivering gut was telling him that he could still get through to the dwarf that had saved him from death more than once.

But this was not the same person, not anymore. A wicked grin twisted Thorin’s mouth as he let go. The air was sucked out of the hobbit’s small lungs and a great fear swelled in his heart as he plunged hopelessly down the side of the Mountain.

He woke up before he hit the ground, gasping for breath. He sat up abruptly in the armchair where he slept, batting his arms about like wings, and flinging his cover aside, as he still tried to hold on to something in his sleep.

His eyes, wide open in lingering terror, stared into what felt at first like a wall of black, and he wondered for a second if he was dead or alive. But soon he began to perceive a soft, golden light that soothed the dimness of wherever he was. Turning his head towards it, he was startled. The light came from a lantern residing on a night table on the opposite side of a large bed. And in the bed lay Thorin, looking more peaceful than Bilbo had ever seen him, eyes closed, still features drawn and livid even under the warm glow of the candle, only a faint echo of breath indicating that he was living. Bilbo’s racing heart sank to a low hum. He sat back in the armchair that was not his, feeling suddenly like the whole mountain was weighing on his shoulders.

Being thrown to his death by Thorin had been only a dream, but the rest had not been. More than the fear that he had felt as the Dwarf King held his very life in his hands and had chosen to let go, he remembered now the tears in Thorin’s eyes as he had told him that he was acting below his character, that the dwarf he had met in Bag End would never have doubted the loyalty of his kin and would never have gone back on his promises to the people of Lake Town. They were tears of a broken heart, of shattered trust and of hurt pride in equal measure. He had known then that his actions would bruise Thorin’s feelings considerably, but only now did he perceive the full depth of the wound he had inflicted, the ties of last-standing confidence that Thorin had wrought in nothing less than mithril and that Bilbo had cut with his choice to take the Arkenstone and finally with his words. They were ties bound in darkness and delusion, but to Thorin they had been no less significant for it. And he had hurt no less when they had been severed.

The Arkenstone. Thorin loved it fiercely and jealously, as Balin had explained. But was Bilbo not acquainted with that love at least a little? Did he not understand better than he wanted to admit what it was like to have an unnatural attachment to a shiny object?

All that had happened in the past day had taken his mind off the ring that he had taken from Gollum, but now he remembered it in a flash. He fished in the pocket of his trousers for it frantically although he did not mean to be so hasty. He did not recall moving it from the pocket of his soiled blue coat borrowed from Bard to that of his new trousers borrowed from Thorin of all people, but it was there. He had probably done it without even thinking when he had changed. The ring gleamed softly in his palm, its smooth side reflecting the light of the lantern, just a tiny thing after all, only one golden ring in a mountain that had halls filled with precious metals and gems. And yet, it was not just a tiny ring. It had magical powers and it had gotten him out of danger so many times. It had helped him help his friends. It was so important to him that he never would have misplaced it or wilfully given away. A great relief washed over Bilbo as he looked upon it again, but it was not the kind of relief that set him free. It bound him further to a dark desire to have the ring and to hold it for himself. The more he looked at it, the more it ensnared him, emptying his mind of everything that he cared for.  

Frightened by his own thoughts, his gaze shot back to Thorin. Yes, he understood very well what the Arkenstone had done to him. He slipped the ring back into his pocket and decided right then and there that Thorin would never lay eyes on it.

Bilbo shifted on his side to face the bed, and gathered the blanket around him. Worry grew in his mind until it became too heavy for him to stay awake under its pressure. He allowed his eyes to close, knowing that there was nothing good waiting for him in the dark.

Strange images tormented the hobbit in his sleep until he woke again, in shivers, at the touch of something cool on his forehead. Opening his eyes, he saw that it was Balin dabbing at his face with a cold, wet cloth.

“You really should be in bed, Bilbo,” said the dwarf, half admonishing, half sympathising.

“No, I need to be with Thorin,” muttered the hobbit, barely able to hear himself speak. Trying to sit up made him realise that he had a dull ache pervading his every bone and muscle. He remembered wavering in and out of consciousness for a while, but he could not tell what time or day it was. The fact that there was more natural light in the room told him at least that it was daytime.

“There is nothing you can do for him now,” said Balin. “You’ll only make yourself worse. Really, Bilbo, we’ve prepared a room for you. Let me take you there, and I promise to let you know as soon as there’s any change.”

“No, what if there’s no time?”

Bilbo had hoped that Balin would dismiss the possibility with much vehemence. He didn’t. He simply sighed and wrinkled his forehead. “All right. Let’s have a look at your head and then I’ll bring you something to eat.” Bilbo opened his mouth to issue more protests, but Balin was done granting him unhealthy favours. “You do not have a say in that. Whatever happens to Thorin, I’m not letting you wither away.”

Bilbo swallowed his words and stood still as Balin leaned over to tend to the wound in his right temple, which had been dressed by the Elves he did not know how many hours before. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaws as Balin’s ministrations sent sharp needles into his skull. He could not help thinking about Thorin, who was in store for much more pain than he was feeling now, should he have woken up.

“There,” said Balin, having finished redressing Bilbo’s wound and tucking the warm blanket tighter around him. “All done. Now sit tight. I’ll be back with something warm and tasty to put a little colour back into your cheeks.” He stood up, smiling a little wearily.

Bilbo loved Balin’s kind smile, and it did him good to see it now more than ever. “How long have I been asleep?” he asked.

“A few good hours. We arrived a little after dark last night, and now it’s almost noon.”

“I see.”

As the elderly dwarf walked away, Bilbo looked towards Thorin. He could see him better now that sunrays were streaming through the well in the ceiling above his bed and through the crystal windows carved within the stone wall, opening into shafts that brought in light from the outside. The part of his face not hidden under dark beard was white as the purest marble and his eyelids had become a translucent, polished purple. He looked strangely beautiful in his hour of defeat. For that was what it felt like to Bilbo as he watched over the possibly dying dwarf, although, in every practical sense, Thorin was victorious.

The sound of the door opening called his attention away from his musings. Balin had returned holding a steaming bowl of something smelling very good.

“There you go, laddie,” said Balin, handing him the bowl. “Can you manage on your own, or do you want help?”

“Thank you, I think I can manage,” answered Bilbo and extracted his arms from under the blanket to receive the food that he now realised he wanted.

Balin pulled up a chair from a writing desk that Bilbo had not noticed before, under the twin windows at the foot of the bed. He sat down, with a heavy sigh and relaxed into the back of his seat, watching the hobbit eat with subtle satisfaction. Then he glanced at Thorin, and his expression clouded.

“If Thorin doesn’t wake up soon enough,” Bilbo spoke again after deciding that the maker of that broth was a rather excellent cook, “won’t he… wither away?”

Balin shook his head slowly. “He’s much stronger than you.”

“Yes, but he’s lost so much blood. And he didn’t exactly have much of an appetite since we entered the Mountain.”

“Let us hope for the best, Bilbo. That is all we can do for now. Thorin has one last battle to win, and it’s entirely his own.”

Bilbo accepted that answer and took a few more spoonfuls. Slowly, the memory of his dream came back to him and with it his feeling of guilt. “Do you think he’s forgiven me?” he asked, looking up from his bowl of food.

“I think we can safely assume that he has,” replied Balin with a little wink.

Bilbo returned a shy smile and kept his eyes on his food until he finished it. Then, he turned and placed the bowl on the night table by his seat. “You know, Balin,” he began, rearranging his quilt around him, “he had every right to be angry with me. I really had no claim over the Arkenstone. After everything that you have told me about it, what it means to Thorin, I imagine it is worth a little more than what was owed me by my contract.”

Balin cocked an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his belly. “Well, perhaps claiming it as your fourteenth share was not the most inspired way for you to put it, but you made the right decision. He could not have been allowed to have it in the state of mind that he was in at the time.”

“It’s not even that,” continued Bilbo. “I betrayed him. He thought that one of you had taken it. He never suspected me. He believed in me most and I was the one who took it. And then I lectured him about loyalty, when I was being disloyal to him myself, as he saw it, at least.”

“He was not seeing things as they were, however. You did what none of us could do precisely because we were loyal.”

Bilbo smiled painfully and looked at his hands. Balin was right. To not act as he had would have been misplaced loyalty. To not try even something that defied Thorin’s wishes in order to save their lives would not have been loyalty at all, not to the friendship that bound them all together, and not to the good in Thorin’s heart. Besides, Bilbo had no debt of allegiance to Thorin as his king. “Still, I hurt him a great deal.”

“Sometimes we must do things that hurt the people we love because we love them.”

Bilbo looked back up at Balin and sustained his gaze for a while. “I suppose. But I was a real fool to think that he would simply give in. I should have known him better than that by now.”

Now Balin raised both of his eyebrows. “He is proud. And he has wanted this for most of his life. Not the stone or the treasure, not for their own worth, but for what they mean: his birthright and our livelihood. We are well off in the Blue Mountains, Bilbo, but it took a lot of work and a lot of sacrifice on everyone’s part, especially Thorin’s. He made it his life’s aim to make sure that we were well provided for. But he never would have found rest had he not taken back Erebor. This is what he’s lived for all this time.”

Bilbo considered Balin’s words, thinking darkly over what they implied. “Is that why he’s so peaceful? Because he thinks that he has fulfilled his destiny?”

Balin did not answer, but the look in his eyes was eloquent enough.

“Balin, did Thorin go out into battle to die?”

“We all did, Bilbo,” Balin replied gravely.

Bilbo stared at him for a while without speaking, turning the dwarf’s words in his mind. Of course, it made sense. They were thirteen and the Orc army was much more numerous. It was not the kind of battle they could really hope to get out alive of.

As for Thorin, he had come as far as he had ever wanted. He had accomplished the mission bequeathed to him by his father and grandfather of reclaiming their kingdom. Killing Azog the Defiler, and with him the will of the Orc armies, would have been the one thing remaining for him to do to save his people once and for all, to ensure that they would be able to live the life that they deserved. But that life could very well be his own. Bilbo did not think that one had to die to find peace, or happiness.

“I understand,” said Bilbo finally. “But he still has much to live for.”

“Oh, I agree,” replied Balin with another twinkle in his eye.

Suddenly, Bilbo no longer felt embarrassed by the implication that he might somehow be part of Thorin’s life if he survived. He was angry again, although he could not tell exactly at whom or what.

“But you would go on without him, if he doesn’t,” he said, looking back down at his hands.

“We owe him as much,” said Balin. “We have a kingdom to rebuild now.”

Bilbo could no longer see Balin’s face, but he did not have to see it to know that he spoke calmly and responsibly about a future that Thorin was not part of.

“Will Dain be king in his place?” asked Bilbo, feeling a hint of bitterness in his own tone.

“Not if Fili recovers. He is next in line.”

“Then Kili and then Dain?” Bilbo continued the line of available kings.

“Precisely,” confirmed Balin.

Bilbo snorted. “Forgive me, Balin, but it seems a little cruel to talk about Fili and Kili and Thorin as if you can just replace one with the other and everything would be the same.”

“That is not true, Bilbo,” replied Balin with a touch of aggravation in his voice that made the hobbit look up at him. “They are dear to my heart as well, you know that. But we all have duties that go above how we feel about each other and above what we might want for ourselves. We all want Thorin to live, but even if he doesn’t, he’s done what he set out to do. He has regained his kingdom and he has given back our home to us and our lives.”

“What about his life?” countered Bilbo. “Why should it matter less just because he has a duty to protect yours? I, I don’t mean yours in particular, I mean -”

“I know what you mean, Bilbo. It does not matter less. But that is not quite the right way to look at it,” said Balin allowing kindness to seep back into his tone. “Are you sure you want to stay in that armchair? A bed would suit you much better. You’re ill and exhausted.”

 _And you’re being unreasonable_ was what Bilbo actually heard. He smiled, his anger finally fading back into embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Balin. It is not my place to tell you how to run your kingdom.”

“It’s quite alright, laddie. It is yours now as much as it is mine,” said Balin, standing up and taking the empty bowl from the night table at Bilbo’s side. He looked down at the hobbit with much warmth, then said finally, “Thorin has not left us yet. Let us not speak as if he has.”

Bilbo nodded, smiling back. “And yes, the armchair will be fine for now.”

As the old dwarf walked out of the room, Bilbo felt like melting into a puddle. His chest ached with all the emotions stirred inside, and his cold seemed to be following the usual course of getting worse before it got better.

Still, his conversation with Balin had made him realize something that he had not really considered before. He thought of Thorin in a very personal way, even if he had known from the very beginning that he had an important status among his kin. He thought of him as a companion on that journey full of peril and wonder, and eventually as a friend. He had always felt that royal figures and great warriors projected a certain distance around them when he had read about them, but he had never really perceived that distance with Thorin, not even when he had seen him wearing his regal armour, or his crown. Perhaps that was because Thorin himself did not act as if he really was more important than the others. He was the leader of the Company and, of course, he was the Dwarves’ king, but perhaps that was not at all what being a king was all about. It was about putting the needs of the others above one’s own, about being willing to give up one’s own life so that others might live. That was Thorin’s duty and it was something that he accepted without hesitation or any real regret. That was why he looked so peaceful now, when he was finally sleeping in his own bed again, because he knew that his duty was done.

A sudden shiver made Bilbo gather the blanket closer around his shoulders. He couldn’t help wondering what his duty was, or if he even had one. He had not come on the quest because of any responsibility bequeathed to him by his forefathers. He had chosen to come because he did not want to imagine what it would have been like to have his home taken away from him over night. He had come because he had wanted to help these poor dwarves who were much less fortunate than him. He had accomplished his mission as well. He too was free to leave that place and go home. But he did not feel free. He felt bound with invisible strings to the one dwarf agonizing in the bed at his side. He would have felt so even if Thorin had not said what he had said to him when they had been reunited after the battle. But he had, and Bilbo could not simply pretend that it had not happened. Balin kept saying that he had no obligation to stay, but his own heart said the opposite. It also said that it wanted an allowance from the rules of destiny for that one instance. It did not want Thorin to die peacefully. It wanted him to live in peace.

Night fell early inside the Lonely Mountain, and it fell over and over without any sign of recovery from Thorin.

On the fourth day since he had taken refuge in Erebor with his dwarf friends, Bilbo was almost healed of his cold, but he still felt wretched from lack of sleep and rising worry. His mood had been lightened a day before and his hope rekindled when Kili had regained consciousness, a few hours after his older brother. He had spent almost the entire day with them, finally able to feel a little happy again after so many dark days. They appeared weary and their faces were colourless, but they were alive and they looked like they were very much out of danger.

But on this fourth early night, despair crept over him with added strength. It was as if the hope that Fili and Kili’s recovery had given him made it even harder to watch over Thorin’s sleep of death. He, on the other hand, was forgetting how to sleep. It was not for lack of needing it. He was tired beyond belief, but every time he closed his eyes, something pushed them back open. It was the fear that if he had lost consciousness, he would not wake in time if Thorin took a turn for the worse. He would not have been able to help, or say goodbye. And so he remained awake, until fatigue defeated him into brief moments of tormented slumber.

He felt one of those moments bearing down on him now. He had sat down by Thorin’s bed, as he no longer had the patience to sit in his armchair. He allowed his head to rest against the bedside, which was nicely soft, and his fingers curled timidly around Thorin’s hand lying inert a few inches away. It felt cold and sickly moist, and Bilbo resisted a first impulse to withdraw his touch. His eyes soon closed on their own, and nightmarish images replaced the real pain.

~

Dwalin stood in the shadows cast by the fire that he had just replenished, a few feet away from Thorin’s bed. He dared not move closer. The hobbit was there, kneeling beside the bed, his torso collapsed over the side of it, and his hand limp near Thorin’s. He appeared to be asleep. As much as it still hurt that Thorin had kept secrets from him and that once revealed, those secrets had changed something in him, Dwalin understood the hobbit’s agony, for it was also his own. If Thorin died, none of it would have mattered, the pain, the secrets, not even the things that he had believed in most in his life: valour in battle, or honour. If valour and honour had killed his friend before they killed him, he no longer wanted them. His great war hammers had been laid to rest in a dark corner of Erebor’s dusty armoury. If Thorin died, he would never fight again.

Dwalin felt his forehead grow unbearably heavy and lowered it to the ground. Hot tears flowed from his eyes as a thought formed itself into words and echoed over and over in his mind. _It should be me. It should be me._

~

Morning came raw for Bilbo after another night of mostly sleepless misery. He was awake, but he did not feel like he was truly there. It felt more like he hovered between worlds. He was not thirsty or hungry, nor did he even want sleep. He did not desire to see the sun or to feel the wind on his face. He did not wish to make pleasant conversation with anyone, or any kind of conversation at all. He was neither living nor dead. He felt thin and disembodied, like a wraith. It appeared even as if he was watching himself from above and he was as helpless to raise himself from that state of death-like apathy as he was in bringing Thorin back to his senses. He was aware of his own limp arms draped over his knees, of his head leaning hopeless against the back of the armchair, and of his half-open eyes casting a glassy, unblinking stare towards the bed where Thorin lay broken. He did not remember rising from his slumping position by the bed and sitting back in the armchair, nor did it really matter.

Soon he became vaguely aware of something else and he was back in his own body. He heard the door open, followed by a quiet shuffle advancing past it and then something that was mostly white came into his field of view.

“Bilbo?” Balin’s voice came affectionately scolding from the white form.

Bilbo didn’t find within himself the strength to respond, or even redirect his gaze towards the person that was speaking to him.

“Bilbo!” insisted Balin, a little more firmly this time and coming closer.

The hobbit finally looked at him and saw that Balin’s kind face was darkened with worry.

“The weather is lovely outside,” said Balin keeping his tone firm. “It would serve you well to get some air. And stop by the kitchens on your way out. You’ve gone long enough without food.”

“I’m not hungry,” mumbled Bilbo and looked back towards Thorin.

Balin sighed audibly and walked up to the armchair where Bilbo sagged powerless. “Bilbo, you are not dying. There is sunshine and song waiting for you outside. You should not shut yourself up in this room as if it were a tomb for the both of you. And this is not what Thorin would want or expect of you.” Bilbo looked up at him, heeding his words. “Come on, up you go. Put this on and go see Bombur about some breakfast,” said Balin, handing him a thick felt coat.

“But-” began Bilbo.

“I’ll stay with Thorin,” reassured Balin. Bilbo opened his mouth again but was interrupted before he could speak. “Nothing will happen while you’re gone. I promise.”

Bilbo finally got up, his bones and muscles protesting being called into action after hours of inactivity. “How can you promise that?”

“I am a very old dwarf, Bilbo,” winked Balin. “I know these things.”

Bilbo accepted Balin’s promise, although he did not really believe that such promises could be made by anyone. He took the coat, wrapped it painfully around his shoulders and walked slowly out of the room.

He had to admit that the more distance he put between himself and Thorin’s room the less he felt like a ghost. There were distant sounds of activity flowing into the corridor leading out of the Royal Quarters, sounds of life, and something in him stirred, wanting to take part in whatever was keeping the others so busy.

As he passed by a door, the smell of food reached his nostrils and he had to stop and look into the direction of the scent. His legs moved by themselves, taking him past the door and into the royal kitchens of Erebor. There was fragrant steam rising from great cauldrons set into giant stone fire pits, and a few dwarves were scurrying about from one cauldron to another. In the middle of this pleasant chaos, Bombur was standing before a wide table, cutting carrots with a big knife and imperturbable composure. He caught sight of the hobbit as he advanced towards his table, and he smiled widely in welcome.

“Ah, Bilbo! Do come in,” he said. “Has Thorin woken up yet?” The inquiry was addressed as if, to Bombur’s mind, there was no question if Thorin would wake up, but only of when. He also didn’t seem dismayed by Bilbo’s look, which could not be terribly healthy at the moment.

“No,” replied Bilbo, looking around “not yet.”

“Don’t worry, he will,” said Bombur, smiling and cutting away at his carrots. “He didn’t come all this way to let somebody else be king in his place, not even Fili or Kili.” Bombur winked and it looked particularly convincing on his round face, reddened by heat.

Bilbo smiled in response and laid his hands on the table top. It was wood and it carried the shine of many years of use.

“Would you like some breakfast?” asked Bombur.

“Uh… I suppose,” said Bilbo, his stomach stirred mildly by the wonderful flavours of the great kitchen.

“I have some lovely sausages for you, and tea,” said Bombur, putting the knife away and wiping his hands on the apron draped over his large belly. “Would you be so kind as to take over for me and cut these carrots while I fry your sausages?” He extracted two plump sausages from a wooden bowl, stuck them into a long fork and sat down before the fire in the nearest hearth.

“Yes, of course,” said Bilbo and moved to the other side of the table. He nodded briefly at the other dwarves, who returned hurried nods.

It was strange holding a kitchen knife again after over a year of carrying a sword in that very same hand. It was bigger than what he used at home, but it was just a kitchen knife, and he only had to slice a carrot with it. Still, his hand shook a little as his fingers wrapped around the knife’s handle and his breath hitched as he pressed the blade down into the orange length of the vegetable. He winced at the thud of the blade making contact with the wooden block beneath as a slice of carrot rolled away from its body. He glanced at Bombur to see if he noticed his uneasiness, but Bombur was staring into the fire, humming to himself and twisting the fork slowly. Bilbo blinked a few times, trying to whisk away the sudden after-images of severed limbs and bleeding wounds that flashed through his mind as his hand gripped the knife tightly. It worked. Soon, the whirlwind in his head abated and he remembered that he was safe, that the battle was over and that he found himself in a kitchen, doing what he had done many times before at home. He sliced with more confidence, remembering even that he enjoyed cooking quite a bit.

Bombur soon finished frying the sausages, and Bilbo ate them slowly with some fresh bread and hot tea on the side, while the dwarf resumed his previous activities. Even though he had not eaten since the afternoon of the previous day, if taking a few sips of a soup could be called eating, he did not feel the consuming hunger that would have afflicted a hobbit after going so long without sustenance. His interest was merely piqued by the smell of the steaming sausages, and it took less effort to open his mouth and take a bite of them. He chewed with difficulty as if he had been chewing a leather belt and as if his jaws were suddenly turning to stone, but the taste made it easier to want to bother with a second bite. He knew that he should have relished this moment and his senses should have whizzed with the pleasure of eating such good sausages, but he could only muster enough strength to eat one of them. He finished his tea and put down his knife and fork beside the plate that still contained one sausage untouched. He already felt full to the brim, and the fumes of food being cooked were beginning to make him nauseated.

“I’m sorry, Bombur, I can’t eat anymore,” he said.

“Oh,” replied Bombur, somewhat regretful, “it’s quite all right. I trust it was to your liking?”

“Yes, yes, it was very good. Thank you, very much. I’m just not that hungry.”

“I hope it will come back to you soon,” said Bombur kindly.

Bilbo nodded. “I’ll be outside, getting some air.”

Bombur returned a nod, and Bilbo stepped away and out of the kitchen, feeling like he had spent every bit of the little energy that he had feigning good humour as he had smiled to Bombur and talked to him and ate the breakfast that he had prepared. He had to resist the urge of dropping to the floor right outside the kitchen, or crawling into a dark corner and falling asleep. He marched on as he had done so many times since he had joined Thorin’s quest, against fatigue and the call of comfort.

As he came out of the corridor that led to the Royal Quarters, he found himself standing in the great hall. Dwarves were busy clearing debris, and most of the hall was now free of boulders and rubble and especially of the charred bodies and armours of the warriors that had faced Smaug when he had burst through the great Gate of the kingdom.

Bilbo walked a few steps forward among the bustling dwarves until he almost bumped into Bifur, who was shoving a bunch of spears and axes to the side. He straightened up and greeted Bilbo with a nod and waving a hand to his forehead, which was now axe-free. He mumbled something in Dwarvish, and even if Bilbo did not understand exactly what he was saying, he could tell from Bifur’s tone that he was not particularly happy about losing the axe in his head, as much as Bilbo would have expected the opposite.

“Yes, I’m,” said Bilbo, trying to sound sympathetic, and feeling an actual honest smile etching itself on his lips. “I’m sorry about that, Bifur.”

Bifur tilted his forehead in recognition of the hobbit’s sympathy, then spoke again in Dwarvish. Through the harsh-sounding words, Bilbo thought he could hear Thorin’s name.

“Oh, no,” Bilbo replied, losing his smile. “Thorin hasn’t woken up.” Bifur continued to stare at him. “Yet.”

Bifur shook his head to that, but he seemed to be somewhat hopeful as well. He planted his hands on his hips and looked around at the many more weapons scattered on the floor than were neatly deposited in the pile that he was making next to the wall.

“Well, uh, do you need help?” offered Bilbo, in spite of not really feeling strong enough to lug heavy dwarven weapons around.

Bifur nodded, looking animated by Bilbo’s offer.

“Right,” said the hobbit and began picking up the smaller ones, such as daggers and arrows.

He found that the work was not as difficult as he had thought it would be. Instead of draining him out, the physical activity infused energy into him. He kept at Bifur’s side, helping him with his task, for what felt like a thankfully long time that his mind did not churn painfully over Thorin’s condition, until the dwarf stretched his back with a deep sigh, signalling to Bilbo that he wanted a break.

Bilbo accepted, taking his leave and walking on towards the great hole in the wall where the Front Gate of the kingdom had been and through which blinding sunlight was now streaming inside. Suddenly, he wanted to run towards the light, to be in the light, to let it surround him and warm his heart. He quickened his step.

It was bright noon when he came out finally and the sun was warm even if it was a day of thorough winter. He breathed in the fresh, snow-fragrant air and realized that it cleared his mind and soothed his aches as if a wave of magic had swept over him. Life was teeming outside. Noises of activity flowed out of the mountain, and all around him dwarves were busy with repairing the entrance. They were indeed singing one of their songs, as Balin had said, in deep, solemn voices.

In Dale there seemed to be equal tumult, as billows of white smoke rose from among its ruins and little figures swarmed all around its still standing walls and towers.

For Bilbo, however, it seemed that the world had stopped. As much as he wanted to feel alive, he didn’t. He had no real wish to go anywhere or do anything. It was a wonder that he could even stand there on his own two feet and watch life unfold for others.

The only thing that would have been worse than the crushed state of mind that he was in would have been to have someone come up behind him with reluctant steps, call his name in a sepulchral hush and tell him that Thorin had finally found his peace, in death.

From the buzz of voices and hammers that filled the mountain, Bilbo began to distinguish a pair of steps coming towards him. They were not reluctant, but rushed. At first he thought that he was imagining it, that his fear was begetting ghosts, so he listened more closely. It was not his imagination. The steps were real and they were getting closer. He did not dare turn and face whoever it was that was coming for him and whatever it was that they had to tell him. The steps halted and harrowed breathing took their place, just behind Bilbo. Someone called his name next. It was Bofur, and if his voice came out unsteady, it was because he was out of breath, but it did not sound particularly grave.

Dread spread through Bilbo’s body like ice through water. He no longer felt crushed and out of energy. Suddenly he felt very alive, as if Bofur had come to kill him and he was clinging to the last seconds of his life, the most precious of all.

Still, Bofur had called his name and it would have been impolite to ignore him. Bilbo turned, expecting the very worst.

Bofur’s expression was hard to read, as he was still fighting to catch his breath.

“Thorin,” Bilbo whispered, “is he-”

“He’s awake!” exclaimed Bofur, panting, and smiling, eyes twinkling. “He woke up a few minutes ago! Balin sent me to find you. He woke up!” repeated Bofur more to himself and started laughing.

Overwhelming relief washed over Bilbo, making him forget in an instant that he had ever been miserable. He smiled back, widely, squeezing Bofur’s arm and darted back inside the mountain, running faster than he had ever run towards anything.

The door to Thorin’s bedroom did not resist being thrown open when he came to it, and Bilbo did not care that the other people in the room - Balin, Dwalin and Dain - turned startled by the noise. He could see them in a blur from the corners of his eyes and his ears registered their mumbled voices as they spoke. But he was not looking at them. His eyes, ears and his every other sense were all focused towards where he knew that Thorin lay in bed. He could not see him, as his view was blocked by Dain’s impressive frame. Balin seemed to whisper something close to his ear, to which Dain drew back his head in what looked like consternation. Eventually, all three walked quietly out of the room, and Balin touched Bilbo’s arm softly as he passed him.

Bilbo was still standing by the door, but now he could see Thorin very well and his agitation faded. Thorin was leaning against a set of pillows, his back raised slightly from his former position. He still looked pale and drained, but his eyes were open. They blinked wider as he caught sight of the hobbit and his head lifted a bit from his pillow.

That was enough to pull Bilbo out of his stupor. He laid aside his sorrow and his doubts and walked a few steps forward so that Thorin did not have to strain to see him. The cover was pulled down from his chest and some of the bandages on his arms had been removed. There were still a few visible cuts here and there, but they were healing and the parts of his skin that were not wrapped were free of most of the bruising.

Bilbo stopped at the foot of his bed, feeling that he should speak first. Thorin seemed too dazed, perhaps by exhaustion and surprise that he was still alive.

“I’m sorry,” began Bilbo, “for what I did. You trusted me and I betrayed that. I really had no right to take the Arkenstone as my fourteenth share. You were right. I did steal from you, but I -”

“Bilbo,” came Thorin’s voice, raspy and frail, but somehow still managing to sound commanding, “it is all forgotten.” Slower and much weaker than usual, Thorin spoke to Bilbo the same words that the hobbit had spoken to him, almost five days before, when Thorin had apologized for his behaviour at the Gate. He smiled faintly and blinked once, looking tired beyond measure.

Bilbo returned a wider smile, and restrained the sudden, powerful wish to grab hold of Thorin’s hand and hold it tight against his fluttering chest. “And forgiven?”

Thorin nodded, “You tell me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Bilbo uttered only the truth in his heart.

They gazed at each other for a while. Thorin looked like he wanted nothing but to lie there still and relish being alive in the soft, warm cloud of peace that had grown in the space between and around them. Bilbo felt that there was no need to speak further at that time, and he himself was content to just be in that moment when he could look into Thorin’s eyes again, after having almost lost hope. Obviously, they both remembered their last conversation very well. There was one last sentence that Thorin had spoken and that had yet to be mentioned. But perhaps it was not the time for that. Perhaps words were not even needed, and everything that they would have meant, had they been uttered, was already afloat in the field of milky white light that bound them.

Thorin leaned his head further back into his pillows, seeming to relax completely, and his right hand lay at his side. This time, Bilbo did not resist the call of its outstretched fingers. He sat down on the side of the bed and allowed his hand to meet Thorin’s.

Although he was most probably in great pain, Thorin’s expression was like nothing Bilbo had seen in him before. There was a quiet confidence in the present moment, a lack of apprehension for the next, a calm that resembled what Bilbo had interpreted as resignation when they had talked last, but that now looked like something completely different. And Thorin’s calm was infectious. Bilbo felt it pervade his every pore and invade his whole being. After so many days of sickening worry, it was hard to believe now that he could feel so relieved and that Thorin was not dying after all. He was not even worried about having to answer Thorin’s confession anymore because Thorin himself did not seem to expect anything from him other than to just be there.

They did not speak, not in words. Thorin’s hand still felt cold, no doubt on account of having lost so much blood, and Bilbo could not hold back the impulse to wrap both of his palms around it for warmth. Thorin smiled at this and his eyes closed just as Bilbo was about to suggest that perhaps he needed to rest. Bilbo continued to hold his hand long after Thorin had fallen asleep, until he himself felt overpowered by a sweet languor. He moved back to the armchair near the bed and really slept for the first time in five days.


	6. Tears and Promises

Bilbo woke to the sound of agony. As he opened his eyes, the scene that he witnessed made him cringe in dismay after he had finally slept well for the first time in many nights.

In the bed before him, Thorin lay flat on his back, his arms spread out like injured wings, with the blanket lowered below his waist, and his wounds unwrapped. Oin, the Company healer, was patting carefully at them with a cloth that he kept rinsing in a bowl at his side, while Balin washed the rest of him with equal care. Still, their ministrations seemed to cause Thorin great discomfort. His eyes were closed, but he was certainly not asleep, as Oin’s gestures elicited faint moans from him, and little beads of sweat were clinging to his forehead. There were also little twitches under his skin every time one of his wounds was being touched. They looked less terrifying than when Bilbo had first seen them right after the battle, but it still hurt to even look at him bare.

When Thorin had finally awoken the previous noon after five days of hanging precariously between life and death, Bilbo had thought that the hardest part was over. Now he realized that his enthusiasm had pushed him into misplaced optimism. The greatest danger had passed, but there was nothing easy about what followed. Thorin had to be nursed back to health and, by the dire look of things, it was going to be a long and difficult process.

Bilbo sat up in his armchair, the rustle of his quilt alerting Balin to his newly awake presence. The dwarf glanced back to him with a look of composure that was the exact opposite of what Bilbo felt about what he was seeing.

“Can I help?” offered the hobbit.

Thorin roused immediately to the sound of his voice. He opened his eyes and turned his head towards Bilbo. Inevitably compelled, the hobbit rose from his seat, not without some protest from his own battered body, and staggered to the side of Thorin’s bed.

Balin smiled as he resumed his gentle task. “We will have to wash his hair properly later. We’ll be needing your help with that.”

Bilbo nodded and looked down to Thorin, who was gazing up at him with large, watery eyes, their blue irises faded grey. It seemed as if all the pain that he was feeling was pouring out through them and showing itself, raw, and blistery, and stinging, to Bilbo. He wished he could have done something to take it away. His first impulse was to comfort Thorin with a touch that was not hurtful, but he did not dare as much with the other two dwarves there. He felt guilty and cowardly about it looking into Thorin’s anguished gaze, but all he could bring himself to do at that point was to receive as much of his pain into his own eyes and try to tell him wordlessly that he was there with him and that he was not going anywhere.

Thorin seemed to understand. He closed his eyes again and allowed his head to lean back to his side, apparently resigning himself to being poked and prodded for a little while longer. To his further shame, Bilbo actually felt relieved that Thorin was no longer sharing his agony with him.

Balin laid aside his washcloth and began lowering the covers over Thorin’s legs. He only had on a pair of briefs. His right thigh was bandaged, but the left one was largely undamaged. Bilbo only managed to muse shortly on how different Dwarf legs looked from Hobbit legs, with their sinewy thickness and their fuzzy cloak of dark hair, before Balin shooed him away tactfully. “Bilbo, if you don’t mind,” he said “we need to do a bit of bathing that is more… private.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” jumped Bilbo, blushing a little and springing into motion towards the door. “I’ll, uh, see how Fili and Kili are.”

“You do that,” approved Balin with a wink.

Bilbo grimaced back and sped out of the room. As he stepped out, Thorin released an actual groan. It seemed that bared dignity hurt more than mauled flesh.

Fili and Kili appeared much more alert than on the previous day. Kili was even sitting up against his pillows, munching on a biscuit. They both brightened up as the hobbit walked in.

“Good morning,” said Fili, and Kili mumbled the same with his mouth full.

Bilbo returned the greeting politely, but barely holding back a grin. It eased his heart a great deal that the two had emerged from the battle with their endearingly informal selves unscathed.

“How is Thorin doing?” asked Fili.

“He’s weak, but fine, I think,” said Bilbo, stopping close to their beds. “He’s not very happy about receiving a bed bath.”

Kili choked on his biscuit and coughed. “Who is? It almost makes me sorry I survived.” His brother cast him a slight glare, although not entirely reprobating. “Well, almost. This is the part they don’t tell you about when they fill your head with tales of heroism.”

All three of them laughed.

Then, Fili asked, “How come you haven’t started back home yet, Bilbo?” He looked innocently unaware of the loud echo of uneasiness that his question sent through the hobbit’s hollowed heart. “I thought you would be eager to return to the Shire once the quest was over. Not that I blame you. It’s quite an excellent little place.”

The brothers snickered to each other, no doubt recollecting their raucous one-night stay in Bag End, but Bilbo ignored them. “I, uh, I have not been well enough to travel, in fact. I wanted to gain back some strength before I took on another journey.”

“Oh, certainly,” approved Fili, “you’re quite right. And this place isn’t so bad either. It just needs a little tidying up. ”

Bilbo responded with a thin smile. It was not the hospitality of the dwarves that he had doubts over. Nor was he staying solely for the purpose of recovering his strength, although that made a lot of sense. He was staying because he felt that he had to, because there were questions that he needed to find an answer to, for Thorin and for himself. But he couldn’t say that to Fili and Kili.

He spent a few more moments with them, then took his leave and visited Bombur’s kitchen to get some breakfast now that his appetite was back.

It was about two hours later that he returned to Thorin’s bedroom. Thorin was bundled up again and seemed to be asleep. Bilbo closed the door behind him with as little noise as possible.

Balin was still there, folding some towels. He smiled to the hobbit as he saw him come in. “I’m afraid we’ve exhausted him for the time being,” he whispered, “but we really must convince him to eat. Will you try when he wakes up?”

Bilbo nodded, then opened his mouth to say something, but Balin brought his finger to his lips, gesturing for him to keep silent. The dwarf set the towels on a table next to the bed, then, with a stretch of his back, approached Bilbo and herded him out of the room.

“Now, what did you want to say?” asked Balin as they found themselves outside the closed door of Thorin’s bedroom.

“Well, I was wondering if now Thorin will be willing to give Bard his promised share of the gold and Thranduil his gems.”

“Oh, I think that the matter is out of his hands given his condition,” replied Balin, tilting his head and crossing his hands in serious fashion over his belly. “Dain is the one who can make such decisions at the moment. He’ll be acting as steward until Thorin is recovered.”

“Oh, I see,” Bilbo mused to himself. “Has he asked about the Arkenstone?”

“He has not.”

“Shouldn’t we tell him that we have it back?”

Balin eyed him for a while. “I believe we should, yes.”

“Right,” said Bilbo. “Where is it?”

“I put it in the drawer of the writing desk.” Balin squeezed the hobbit’s arm. “I’ll be with Fili and Kili if you need me.”

Bilbo smiled back and returned to Thorin’s room. Thorin turned his head to the sound of the door opening and peered woefully at the hobbit from under heavy eyelids.

“I thought you were asleep,” said Bilbo, walking up to his bed.

Thorin did not answer, but he did not really have to. The look in his eyes was enough for Bilbo to understand that he hurt too much to sleep. Bilbo’s first idea was to offer to fetch Oin so that he could give him something for it, but then he thought better of it. Dwarf warriors probably preferred to wear their pain proudly, like a high-held banner of honour. He wondered if any form of comfort at all would have been well received. Thorin’s mood had darkened considerably. He was no longer serene as he had been the previous day, and the cloud that Bilbo still felt enveloping the both of them in their closeness had grown cold. Bilbo simply sat down on the edge of his bed, gathering his hands together awkwardly, not knowing what else to do with them at that time.

“How are Fili and Kili?” croaked Thorin, his voice hoarse and distant.

Bilbo was startled, but found his words quickly enough. “They’re recovering well. And they seem to be in good spirits.”

Thorin blinked once slowly and tried to draw in a deep breath, but the rise of his chest halted halfway as if something heavy held it down, and his eyelids dug deeply into their sockets, bringing his eyebrows down with them into a hard frown. Then, he opened his eyes again, the image of deep-seated pain still swimming in their blue mist.

“How are you?” he asked, his words sliding gentler off the downward slope of that excruciating half-breath.

“I’m fine”, replied Bilbo, finding it hard to speak suddenly. “A few bruises here and there. The armour you gave me protected me quite well.”

“I am glad.”

“I wish you had kept it for yourself,” Bilbo thought aloud.

“I had no need for it,” said Thorin with a note of abandon in his voice.

“Thorin - ” began Bilbo

“I should not be here,” Thorin spoke as if from beyond the grave.

“Don’t say that, Thorin. You are here and all that matters now is that you get well.”

Bilbo’s reassurance did not seem to register. Thorin’s unblinking gaze remained fixed on him and he seemed to be looking through him more than at him. “You should not be here either,” he said in the same ghostly whisper.

Bilbo had to think of what he meant. Why would Thorin not expect him to still be there after what he had said to him? Perhaps it was an especially subtle way of asking for his answer. But that was not what he heard in his tone. It felt rather like Thorin thought that there was nothing keeping Bilbo there anymore, not even his confession of love, and the thought of that broke Bilbo’s heart, if it was true. “Where else should I be?”

“Back home. With your books and your armchair.”

Although Thorin’s reply confirmed his intuition, Bilbo smiled at the fact that Thorin had remembered those two staples of his idea of home through all the hardship that he had endured. “I’ve decided to stay for a while longer. Your own armchair is quite comfortable, and I’m sure I’ve seen books around here somewhere,” replied Bilbo, meeting Thorin’s apparent hopelessness with head-on calm.

Thorin echoed it with the shadow of a smile. “You cannot read our language.”

“Well, perhaps I’ll write my own book then, about our adventure.”

“Will you allow me to read it?” asked Thorin.

“Of course. You will be one of its prominent heroes, after all.”

Thorin looked like he wanted to say more but he didn’t have the strength to go on. He simply drew in another half-breath.

Bilbo took this opportunity to close the matter of the Arkenstone. He cleared his throat. “Thorin, I have something to show you… or, to give back.” Nervousness thumping in his blood, he got up and walked to the writing desk that Balin had indicated. He collected the stone, veiled in soft elven cloth, and went back with it towards Thorin’s bed. Thorin watched as he peeled back the cloth and the Arkenstone radiated its exquisite glow in Bilbo’s hand. It seemed to cast shadows into Thorin’s widening eyes as dark as its colours were bright.

“Thranduil brought it back after the battle, together with your sword. I can get that, too, if you wish to see it.”

“No,” said Thorin, his already weak voice ashiver, “put it back.” He looked up at the hobbit, tears flooding his eyes.

“All right,” said Bilbo, wrapping the stone in the grey elvish fabric, and walked back to the writing desk, wishing that he had never taken it out. It obviously made Thorin relive all the ugliness of the recent past, which was the last thing he needed at that particular time.

When he returned to his bed, Thorin was nursing a sob. There were abundant tears flowing down the sides of his face and his already ailing chest convulsed like a dying bird. Bilbo could not say that he did not understand his reaction. The last few days had been hard for everyone, but they had been especially hard for Thorin, who had had to battle his demons on top of hunger, exhaustion and an army of Orcs.

He laid a hand over Thorin’s. He wished he could have caressed his face and even kissed it to convince him beyond a doubt that he was loved, but he still did not have the courage for it, even now when they were alone.

“I did not mean to upset you,” Bilbo apologized, stroking the back of Thorin’s hand with his thumb. “I only wanted you to know that it has been returned.” Thorin stared at him with infinite remorse. “It’s over now, Thorin,” Bilbo pressed on, “we’re all safe. You’re safe. And you won the battle for us.”

“Does that make up for everything that I did?” asked Thorin in a nasal voice that Bilbo found amusing in spite of the seriousness of their conversation.

“I would say that it does. And what did you do that’s so terrible?”

“I tried to kill you.”

Bilbo found himself without words for a while. “That was not you.”

“It was part of me.”

“A part that is gone now. And I am not entirely innocent myself,” admitted Bilbo, after another pause. “I did steal your most prized possession and gave it to those you considered to be your enemies. If you had stolen my mother’s silverware and given it to Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, I might have reacted exactly in the same way.” Bilbo smiled, embarrassed at his own remark, realizing that it was not the most appropriate comparison.

“Who?” asked Thorin, his attention piqued by the unknown name.

“Forget it, that was a half-witted comparison. The point is, you had reasons to do what you did. And I don’t think anyone places that much importance on your mistakes. I think they’re all grateful that they have their home back, and their king.” Thorin smiled with more confidence. “You still have much to live for, Thorin. You have a kingdom to rebuild.”

Thorin seemed to accept the wisdom of Bilbo’s words, and he breathed as regularly as he could again. In the wake of his lament, his cheeks glowed with a fine film of tears, their traces disappearing into his beard and ears. Yet his eyes appeared animated by a strange light, which seemed to hold the picture of his kingdom renewed. The mention of a future that still held promise for him had kindled an unexpected spark in Thorin’s mind, and to Bilbo’s growing anxiety, he could see himself in Thorin’s image of that future.

He cleared his throat a second time, feeling the sudden need to change the subject. “My handkerchief would have come in useful right about now,” said Bilbo, looking around for one. Thorin’s face was still drenched in tears and something had to be done about that in the very immediate present.

The hobbit remembered the chest of drawers that Balin had gotten him his clothes from and got up to look for a handkerchief in it. It did not take long to find one and he was soon back at Thorin’s side, dabbing at his wet cheeks, not without feeling that his very presence there and his gesture already sealed his participation in whatever Thorin wished for the future. “I’m wearing your clothes, by the way,” he said, his anxiety fading before the realisation that something was happening without his being able to stop it. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“I am glad they fit you,” said Thorin, sounding peaceful again, the flash of grand plans for the future gone from his eyes.

As Bilbo finished drying his face and helped him blow his nose, Thorin was finally able to draw in a more satisfying breath. “I also threatened Dwalin with death,” he murmured slowly, his eyelids drooping.

“That has been the last thing on Dwalin’s mind these past few days,” replied Bilbo, smiling painfully, knowing that Thorin had yet to learn that Dwalin was nursing hurt feelings over an entirely different subject. Then he remembered that he had one more assignment from Balin. “Thorin,” he said more seriously, “you should try to eat something.” Thorin moaned a refusal. “You haven’t had anything to eat in 6 days. Try just a little, please.”

“Later,” declined Thorin.

Bilbo sighed, giving up. “Well, you’re probably not going to fall asleep either, so how about I wash your hair?”

Thorin flashed a wide-eyed look at him, suddenly revived.

“Is there a problem?” inquired Bilbo.

“No,” said Thorin quietly, but there seemed to be more that he was not saying.

“Right then.”

Bilbo chose not to inquire further at that time and went to find Balin. The old dwarf was just coming out of Fili and Kili’s room, closing the door behind him.

“Balin, Thorin’s having trouble sleeping. You were saying something about washing his hair. I thought we might save some time and do it now?”

“Certainly,” said Balin, and they both started back to Thorin’s bedroom.

“Balin, I want to ask you something first. Thorin seemed surprised when I told him that I would wash his hair. Do you know why?”

Balin gave him a look as if he had been afraid that he would ask that question. He sighed. “Well, Bilbo, our hair and beards are very important to us, as you might have surmised yourself by now. To wash or groom a Dwarf’s hair is usually a very intimate act reserved for family members or for those who share a bond of love.”

“Oh,” said Bilbo, feeling himself blush again to the tips of his pointy ears. He also remembered Dwalin’s angry gaze looming over him as he had washed Thorin’s hair of the grime of battle days before and gained a whole new understanding of it.

“Now, exceptions can be made when it is absolutely necessary,” offered Balin.

“Are you sure that I’m the one who should do this? I mean, now that he’s aware of who’s doing what.”

“This very well qualifies as an exception,” said Balin, then contemplated the hobbit, looking to fully grasp the thoughts that worried him. “Bilbo, I know what troubles you, and you certainly have the right to make up your own mind as to how you feel about Thorin, in your own time, but the truth is that we could really use your help right now.” Bilbo glanced up at him, fearful. “I assume you intend to stay with us for a little while longer if you did not leave with Gandalf.”

Bilbo nodded once slowly, realizing for the first time that he was most probably there for the whole winter. He could not imagine braving the wilderness on his own at that particular time of the year, and he did not expect any of the dwarves to go with him. The thought of it scared him a little now that he contemplated it in full awareness.

Balin acknowledged and continued. “Thorin will not be able to do a lot on his own for a while, and the less he strains himself the sooner he will recover. He will need someone around and none of us can truly afford to stay with him all the time. I also suspect that it might put him in better spirits if that person were you.”

Bilbo could not help smiling at that.

“I know what I am asking, Bilbo,” said Balin, tilting his forehead in sympathy at the hobbit, “but you will not be alone. Oin, Dwalin and I will be seeing to his more serious needs. We just need you to keep him comfortable.”

“I suppose I can do that,” accepted Bilbo, straightening his shoulders.

“Perhaps it will also help you find the answers that you need to find.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” muttered Bilbo, without really thinking.

Balin chuckled in response and wrapped an affectionate arm around Bilbo’s shoulders. “Most of us are afraid of that.” He spoke in a whisper, close to the hobbit’s ear, as if he was imparting a personal secret to him.

Bilbo looked up, startled that his remark had been heard. “Thorin didn’t seem to be.”

“When death breathes down your neck, the fears you had in life tend to pale by comparison. Shall we go in then?”

Knowing that he was as ready now as he could ever be, Bilbo consented and allowed himself to be guided back into Thorin’s room.

Thorin lay peaceful in bed. Their earlier lengthy conversation had probably tired him enough to dull the pain that was keeping him from dozing off.

Losing the warmth of Balin’s arm around him as the dwarf went on to gather the necessary supplies, Bilbo felt a little alone in his looming worries, and even a little ashamed of them. He had wanted Thorin to live so desperately, and now that he was no longer dying, he was afraid of him and of what his living presence might awaken in himself.

Through the haze of his thoughts, Bilbo watched Balin prepare Thorin for his bath as if he was watching a solemn ritual being performed, as if preparations were being made for something very fragile but very important to be passed on to him, as if from that moment on, he was accepting responsibility in some way for Thorin’s life.

Balin placed a large spread of leather on the side of the bed, to protect the sheets and mattress from getting wet, and then moved Thorin as carefully as he could so that his head hung slightly over the side of his bed. Thorin was awake by now and protested a little at his wounds being jostled in the process, but now that he had been settled back into relative comfort, his eyes opened and closed lazily as he drifted between sleep and wakefulness.

Balin brought a short stool for Bilbo to sit on and a basin that he placed underneath Thorin’s head, and into which he proceeded to pour warm water.

“You can get more water from the bathroom,” said Balin. “And you can use these towels here,” he indicated the towels that he had been folding earlier. “I’ll bring you some soap as well.”

Balin disappeared into the bathroom, but reappeared soon, carrying a white, soft-looking soap. It was different from the one that Bilbo had selected for his own use, which was pale purple in colour and smelled remotely of lavender. He placed it on top of the stack of towels.

“I will leave you to it then,” he said, then shuffled out of the room.

Although there was an undeniable weight pressing down on his shoulders, Bilbo took a deep breath and resolved to do his best. He began by collecting the soap and towels that he needed.

“Bilbo?” came Thorin’s voice, suddenly clear and unexpectedly soothing to Bilbo’s ears.

The hobbit glanced at him smiling. “I’m here,” he said, standing near the table where his supplies resided.

Thorin turned his head to him. He no longer looked particularly surprised that Bilbo was going to wash his hair. On the contrary, he seemed quite at peace with that idea. Despite Balin’s reassurance that this did not necessarily mean anything more than helping an incapacitated dwarf with a personal grooming task that he could not perform himself, Bilbo had to wonder if Thorin did not see more in it because, perhaps, he wanted it to be more.

“Are you comfortable?” asked Bilbo, feeling the very opposite of that as he gathered the towels in his arms.

Thorin nodded, looking like he was indeed suffering less. It should have made Bilbo glad, but instead it caused a lump to grow in his throat.

Eager to divert his thoughts, and suddenly curious to expand his knowledge of dwarven toiletries, Bilbo took the soap and brought it up to his nose to sniff it. A sweet if faded scent of almonds emanated from it. “Mmm, this smells nice.”

Thorin approved with a slow blink, and in it Bilbo perceived, not without surprise, a clear appreciation for such things. Being involved in the high matters of the world could even make a hobbit forget the importance of home comforts, and Bilbo had certainly learned to go without a lot of the things that he had previously thought indispensable, such as a nice long bath, or a good cup of tea. He was sure that Thorin had learned to do that very early in his life, but it did not seem as if those things had become unimportant to him. And now he was in more need of them than ever. Wounded and aching as he was, after being doused in the violence and bloodshed of battle, something as small as a bar of fragrant soap and a task as seemingly mundane as having his hair washed had the power to bring him great comfort. And it was a power that had been placed into Bilbo’s hands by Balin’s request. Understanding this intensified the tightness in Bilbo’s chest, but to turn down such a request would have been to rob Thorin of solace from the inevitable pain and indignity of being confined to his bed.

The more Bilbo thought about what was happening, the more he needed to sit down. He repositioned the stool that Balin had brought for him and sat down on it, then placed the towels on the bed at Thorin’s side. He felt very much like he was about to perform a solemn ritual himself, one which meaning he could not yet grasp in full.

Thorin was staring at him backwards over his forehead with his ashy-blue eyes wide open and filled with something which Bilbo could only interpret as gratitude. It assuaged his anxiety. As he gazed down at Thorin lying there, sore, sick and helpless, he realized that, perhaps, it was him who had to be grateful, and not just because they were both alive. It was no small thing that the once proud and strong Thorin Oakenshield was baring his heart before him and letting him see his weakness in all its sad glory. Bilbo felt that his unconcealed misery and the tears that he had shed in his presence were gifts that Thorin was bestowing upon him, perhaps more valuable than the mithril shirt. They were precious bits of his innermost being that he was entrusting to Bilbo, a sign clearer than the crispest daylight that he believed in him again. To refuse would have meant to betray him once more, this time unforgivably and beyond repair.

The deep cut across Thorin’s brow sneered at him with receding teeth. It had been stitched up and tamed with poultices of Oin’s skilled making, and so it was healing well, but it still sent a needle through Bilbo’s chest to look upon it so closely. He would have to be careful not to allow too much water to seep around it.

With a deep sigh, Bilbo dared touch Thorin again. He gathered his hair from under and around his head, unable to prevent his fingertips from brushing against Thorin’s ears and temples and tingling slightly as they did so, and let it flow down the side of the bed. It was matted and dulled from not having been washed properly in a long time, but Bilbo still marvelled at its thick strands and its lush abundance.

“This looks like a big job,” he poked with a raised eyebrow. “Know where I can find a serious comb?”

Thorin smiled in return and glanced into the direction of the bathroom.

“Right, I’ll be back,” said Bilbo, getting up.

Having found something appropriate, he returned and instead of sitting back on his stool, he pushed it aside and settled on the floor so that he could have better control of the length of Thorin’s hair.

“I’ll try not to hurt you,” said Bilbo, and began combing it with his fingers first, feeling for particularly stubborn kinks.

Thorin moaned soft approval, as if he trusted the hobbit completely to be true to his word.

Indeed, as Bilbo’s fingers ran through the dark and grey curls, they appeared to take on a life of their own, moving with gentleness and care that he was not deliberately putting into them. He found himself smiling at the sensation of having his hands so intimately entwined in Thorin’s tresses. It was fuzzy and unexplainably gratifying. His blood carried that sensation from his hands into his entire body until it overflowed into a slight shiver, which made Bilbo withdraw his touch at once.

Not really affording the time to brood about it, he began to work the comb in, breaking all the knots and tangles. Then, he reseated himself on the stool, coming back into view of Thorin’s face, which was bathed in the same benign look of surrender.

Finally, he began pouring water with a cup over his head. He had done this once before, right after the battle, without knowing that this gesture carried a special meaning for Dwarves. But Thorin had been unconscious then. He had not been looking back at him with his striking, luminous eyes.

Even then Bilbo had thought back to the times when his own hair had been washed by his mother, and to the way it had always felt like a pledge of her love. He wondered, uneasily, if that was how Thorin felt about it now. He remembered shrinking under the critical eye of Dwalin, who had been standing at his side, watching him like a hawk. He had most probably seen it that way and not liked it very much. But there was no criticism in the gaze that was directed at him now and that belonged to Thorin himself. There was a question in it, however, the very question that Dwalin had asked him with a marked tone of contempt, of whether he felt the same as Thorin had said he did. It did not have the menacing quality of Dwalin’s tone, but it unnerved him all the same.

“I think it would be better if you closed your eyes,” said Bilbo, trying his best to keep tension out of his voice and making an entirely valid argument, as his suggestion would obviously help prevent water from reaching into Thorin’s eyes.

Thorin obliged, without any perceivable trace of regret, which saved Bilbo from feeling guilty once more.

Bilbo felt relieved instead. Now he could collect himself and concentrate on the task at hand rather than on alarming introspection. He began massaging Thorin’s head with soap, and it seemed to please him. His eyes fell deeper shut and his features relaxed into a look of oblivion. Bilbo even thought he could see the apparition of a faint smile on his lips. By the time Bilbo soaped his hair a second time, Thorin was snoring lightly and his lips were slightly parted. He had fallen well and truly asleep.

Blibo had not expected as much, but it did make him glad.

As his hands continued to caress Thorin’s hair and sometimes small patches of his lukewarm skin, a frozen shadow loomed over him. Grim thoughts tumbled in his mind unchecked and irrepressible. Thoughts of Thorin’s skin being cold, of his chest not rising slowly and falling under the blanket that covered him, of him sleeping the final slumber of death. He could not stop his mind’s eyes from seeing the terrifying vision of washing Thorin’s corpse instead of his living, breathing body, as it would have had to be done for him to be buried. His fingers trembled as if they worked through needles of ice and he felt the life in his own chest recede into numbing frost. What would it have been like to take part in the awful but necessary ritual of preparing Thorin’s body for burial? Would the dwarves have asked him to be part of it? Would he have accepted? Could he have accepted? Or would that have been part of his duty to him as well? A final token of the respect and friendship that they had shared in life? Perhaps it was, but could he have truly touched Thorin’s dead flesh and gained undeniable proof that it was real? Could he really have had a hand in putting him inside a cold stone grave and leaving him there? No, he was certain now as his hands hovered shakily above Thorin’s still living form that he was not ready to let go and watch him being buried.

As Bilbo’s fingers brushed against Thorin’s warm skin, the dark vision scattered like ghostly mist under the light of a bright dawn. He knew that he had very nearly escaped that black ending, but he did not have to think about it anymore. Thorin was not dead, and he was not going to be in any foreseeable future. He was only sleeping, finally, but he was going to wake up and smile to him and they would talk again as friends.

Coming back to his senses with renewed courage, Bilbo poured fresh warm water over Thorin’s hair to rinse out the soap, and it occurred to him that he was not only washing away the soil and the sweat, but also the anguish that Thorin had carried with him for so long. He glimpsed now the reasons why Balin had told him that the washing of a Dwarf’s hair was akin to being sacred. He saw the promise behind his own gesture, and that was the question that had been lingering in Thorin’s eyes earlier. He understood now that Thorin only wanted him to promise that he would search his heart without fear and that whatever he would find there, he would meet it with honesty. And honesty was the one thing that he truly owed the King under the Mountain. That was a promise that Bilbo could make, and he sealed it with a secret kiss to Thorin’s sleeping forehead.


	7. Loose Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin finally talks to Dwalin, convenes with Dain on kingly affairs and makes a bold proposition to Bilbo.
> 
> Contains *major spoiler* for "My Heart Burns"

Thorin roused from a long and finally restful sleep. Balin had laid him back onto his pillows after Bilbo had finished washing and drying his hair, and he’d been asleep for most of the day. Judging by the misty web of light that streamed into the room from the winter sun outside, it was late in the afternoon now. Thorin opened his eyes slowly and turned his head towards where he expected Bilbo to be. And Bilbo was there, leaning against the back of his faithful velvet armchair, with a gauzy smile on his face.

“Thank you,” whispered Thorin.

“Perhaps now you could do me a favour,” answered Bilbo, sitting up.

“I wish that I could.”

“You could eat,” said Bilbo, raising an eyebrow.

Thorin blinked once in quiet agreement, then said, “I wish to speak to Dain first.”

“Very well,” said Bilbo, getting up. “I’ll tell him right away.”

He walked out of the room with a determined bounce in his step. He had expected Thorin to want to see Dain once he felt better. He was probably aware that his cousin had taken over his duties and it was only natural for him to seek his counsel. In fact, it put his mind at ease that Thorin was taking an interest again in the fate of his kingdom. It meant that he had put aside his earlier hopelessness.

Dain was out in the great hall, which had been cleared for the most part, and he was talking with Balin and Dwalin about something that warranted wide gesturing.

Bilbo approached them without much hesitation and cleared his throat to alert them to his presence, even if he was aware that he was interrupting.

All three dwarves looked down at him startled, and Dain even appeared flustered that his undoubtedly important speech had been curtailed so unceremoniously, but it did nothing to intimidate the hobbit.

“Lord Dain,” said Bilbo with a nod of acknowledgement, “Thorin wishes to speak to you.”

“Oh, of course” replied Dain, rescinding some of his annoyance and drawing in a deep breath that inflated his already impressive chest.

He was no longer wearing armour, but he still looked very much like a Durin. In spite of the hostility of their first encounter, Bilbo had to admit that Erebor could be in much less capable hands.

“We shall continue this later,” Dain announced to Balin and Dwalin, who took their leave with a bow of their heads. “Well, then, lead on, Master Baggins,” he said, looking at the hobbit with a slight smirk, and Bilbo thought he could see Dwalin glowering at him across Dain’s shoulder.

Swallowing the knot in his throat, Bilbo nodded and started back with Dain in his trail. They walked in silence until they reached the narrower corridor that led to the Royal Wing. In the quiet emptiness of the rock tunnel, Dain’s steps sounded all the heavier in Bilbo’s ears.

“I am surprised you are still here, Master Baggins,” Dain’s voice boomed behind him. “Indulge my curiosity and tell me, what is your interest in my cousin?”

Bilbo jumped and felt suddenly that the walls of the corridor were closing in on him. “Interest? I have no interest. I simply could not leave without making amends after… after what happened.”

“I see. Have you returned the Arkenstone then?”

“Yes! Well, Thranduil brought it back. It is in Thorin’s room now.”

“So that matter is settled,” said Dain with slight bitterness in his tone.

“Yes, yes, it is,” replied Bilbo, an emptiness gaping in his stomach.

Dain said nothing more after that, but Bilbo could feel his eyes pinned on him for the remainder of their journey to the Royal Quarters. It occurred to Bilbo in a flash that Dain probably knew the way very well, as he must have taken one of the rooms in that part of the Mountain for his own use. He had every right to do so, after all.

They reached their destination soon enough for Bilbo to be thankful that he did not have to ruminate any longer on things that he had little control over. He opened the door to Thorin’s bedroom and waited for Dain to enter before shutting it. Dain gave him a slight glance over his shoulder and Bilbo walked on to Thorin’s bed. The wounded dwarf king seemed to have dozed off again.

“Thorin?” called Bilbo loud enough for Thorin to open his eyes at the sound of it. “Lord Dain is here to see you.”

Thorin shifted a bit on his pillows, trying to shed his lethargy, and achieved that thoroughly as the movement awoke his sleeping pains.

Dain came up at Bilbo’s side, making the hobbit feel like he was imposing. “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” he said, starting back.

“No, stay,” said Thorin, his stirred aches still resonant in his voice.

Bilbo looked at him startled, then glanced up at Dain, who did not seem very much bothered by Thorin’s request, to his surprise. He nodded and only took a few steps back, although he still felt like he was imposing. He was being made privy to kingly counsel, which was not necessarily something that he thought appropriate for the ears of a Baggins. He wondered why Thorin had asked him to stay, but whatever the reason for it, he intended to respect his wish while making himself as scarce as possible.

“I am glad to see you looking better, cousin,” began Dain.

Thorin only responded with a smile. He did appear more rested, but he was far still from his former powerful presence. In fact, he seemed smaller as he lay in his large bed, out of the many layers that Dwarves wore and covered instead by a thick wool blanket.

“How is my kingdom?” asked Thorin, his voice stronger than he looked.

“Could be worse,” said Dain. “Repairs to the entrance are almost done and we cleared the great hall. We’ve cleaned up part of the living quarters for those of us who are still alive and for the wounded. I hope you don’t mind that I took your father’s room.”

Thorin shook his head slowly. “Not at all.”

“The firewood stock seems to be in good shape for the winter, and the hot spring pipes are working in the Royal Wing. Oh, and your Bombur has taken over the kitchen. He’s quite the cook.”

Thorin appeared pleased with the news. “What about supplies?”

“We have enough for about a month. I’ll send for more in a couple of weeks.”

Thorin nodded again and paused while he caught his breath. “You should give their claim to Bard and Thranduil,” he said, “I promised Bard-”

“I already have,” said Dain, in a hushed tone that sent a slight shiver up Bilbo’s spine. He had asked Balin about this and he knew that all of Thorin’s prerogatives as king were now in Dain’s hands, including honouring the promises that he had made to the people of Lake Town. It stood to reason that Thorin also knew this, but even Dain seemed worried that it might wound his pride.

“Of course,” Thorin replied faintly. There was another pause as he gathered more strength to speak. “Tell Bard,” said Thorin, sounding like he was using the very last ounces of that strength, “that they can come here if they need shelter. They have women and children with them. Dale is ruined. They cannot survive the winter there.”

“Aye, cousin,” agreed Dain, “their women are not as hardy as ours, and neither are their wee ones.” Both of them laughed, Dain more heartily, and Thorin more quietly.

Bilbo perceived in their laughter something very familiar to him – the knowledge that the walls of a home, whether it was a hobbit hole in the ground, or a dwarf city carved inside a mountain, were only as important as they provided shelter and warmth for those who lived inside them. The feeling stung his heart with both longing for Bag End and for his fellow hobbits, even if he liked less of them than they probably deserved, and with an unpleasant sensation that he was not supposed to be there as the two Dwarf lords discussed their kin, which he was not part of. The dwarves in Thorin’s company were his friends, but they were not really his family, even if they made him feel that way. He could not help wondering uncomfortably how he would fit into the image of the future that he had seen in Thorin’s eyes and that included him, even if Thorin had responsibilities to his own people that loomed greater now than anything else.

“Speaking of hardy Dwarf women,” spoke Dain, in a slightly playful tone, “I’ve also sent a raven to your sister in the Blue Mountains. She must be expecting news by now. Knowing her, she’ll likely want to leave immediately and cross the wilderness even in the dead of winter to get here.” Thorin smiled, appearing to agree fully with Dain’s picture of his sister. “Which would not be a bad thing, in fact. If Erebor needs anything at this time, it’s the iron hand of Lady Dis.”

“It will get what it needs sooner or later,” responded Thorin, his fond smile lingering.

Dain grinned back, and laid a hand on Thorin’s good right shoulder. “I am sure of it, cousin. Now, get some rest.”

Dain greeted the hobbit as he passed by the shadowy corner of the room where he stood, and then walked out in a brisk step.

Finally, Bilbo felt free to return to Thorin’s bedside. Thorin looked tired, but his eyes were open and alight. He glanced up at the hobbit as he approached.

“Would you like some supper now?” Bilbo asked a little timidly.

Thorin approved with a light smirk. “You would get along very well with my sister, at least on the matter of meals.”

Bilbo found himself smiling like a spring blossom at that. From Dain’s words about Thorin’s sister, he had gathered a somewhat intimidating image of her, but now he felt that perhaps he was not that out of place taking care of Thorin in a way that was probably best suited for his sister. Taking his new little ray of sunshine and tucking it close inside his heart, he went to find Balin and tell him the good news.

Balin was still conversing with his brother, and Bilbo perceived something within him shrink again as he approached them.

“Balin, I‘m sorry to interrupt,” he said, “I came to tell you that Thorin has finally agreed to eat something.”

“Oh, excellent!” said Balin, gladly putting aside whatever it was that he was discussing with Dwalin. “I asked Bombur to make some soup. Come with me,” he indicated both the hobbit and his brother, then trotted away towards the Royal Wing.

As they reached the kitchen, Balin turned on his heels to face his companions. “Bilbo, go with Dwalin and help Thorin sit up. I’ll be in soon with his food.”

Bilbo and Dwalin looked at each other with some apprehension, but they did not protest. They marched on in leaden silence until they reached Thorin’s bedroom and walked inside.

Bilbo followed Dwalin as he made for the bed, watching his burdened steps but straight shoulders. He was obviously still struggling with conflicting emotions, but he could not hide his relief that Thorin was alive and well.

Thorin must have caught sight of him from the corner of his half-open eyes, for he turned his head and looked up at him as Dwalin stood close to his bed. Bilbo felt again that perhaps he should not be present at this reunion. He could only see Dwalin’s broad back, but by the pleading look on Thorin’s features, he could tell that there were mixed feelings showing on his face.

“Bilbo,” called Dwalin, a little harshly, “come and prop up his pillows.”

The hobbit hurried to the other side of the bed.

“Now let’s sit you up a wee bit,” said Dwalin, lowering the covers from Thorin’s upper body and wrapping his arms around his bundled form, as carefully as he had done when Thorin had still been unconscious. Thorin was rag-like in his embrace and he moaned faintly at being lifted.

“I know, I know, doing my best,” crooned Dwalin into his ear as he held him like a days-old dwarfling, waiting for Bilbo to rearrange the pillows. Then, he set him back against them, earning another brief whimper.

It was painful for Bilbo to watch so closely as these two old friends who had faced death and danger together were now estranged in spite of having finally reached home. The ties that bound them through the long years were still there, but they had grown thin and there were places where they threatened to break.

Dwalin withdrew as soon as he had settled his friend back in bed, and drew the blanket up over his hands. Then, he nodded once and left the room, without any further word.

Thorin looked at Bilbo, visibly indisposed. “He has not forgiven my behaviour,” he said darkly.

Bilbo opened his mouth to respond, but took some more time to think about what he would say. He suspected that the reason behind Dwalin’s cold stance was less related to whatever threats Thorin had proffered in his madness, and more to his confessed feelings for their hobbit burglar. “I’m sure that he has,” Bilbo said eventually.

He was saved from saying anything further by Balin entering the room with a tray in his hands. “It’s just a bit of soup,” he said, smiling, as he set the tray down on the night table at Thorin’s head. “We don’t want to be too hard on your poor stomach. You’ll be able to eat better in a few days.”

Thorin had looked like he had lost the little appetite he had when Dwalin had left the room, but now the undoubtedly tempting fragrance of the soup seemed to have caught his interest.

“Bilbo, will you be a good lad and help Thorin? I have to tend to some unfinished business.”

Bilbo came around to the side of the bed where Balin stood, and where Dwalin had stood before him. He accepted this new assignment from Balin with a smile, and the white-haired dwarf strolled off, looking like a great burden had been lifted off his shoulders.

Bilbo gazed back to Thorin, who was leaning silent against his pillows. With a soft sigh, he drew a chair from the writing desk at the foot of the bed, and sat down near Thorin. He took the bowl of soup from the tray and swirled its contents around a bit with the spoon, to cool it.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” he jumped, setting the bowl of soup back on the night table. He got up and retrieved a towel, which he draped over Thorin’s chest and close around his neck.

This seemed to vex Thorin’s pride more than temporarily losing his kingly powers to Dain. He rewarded Bilbo with a glare.

“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t,” said Bilbo with a wink.

Thorin’s scowl faded, and Bilbo retook his seat and his grip of the soup bowl. “This smells rather good,” he said, hoping that it would encourage the suddenly grouchy dwarf to cooperate. “Let’s give it a try, shall we?”

Bilbo scooped up a spoonful of soup, blew over it gently, and offered it to Thorin. He accepted it without fuss and swallowed gingerly. It most likely tasted as good as it smelled, for the expression on his face mellowed as if by a spell. There was a lot that a taste of good, warm soup could do for an anguished soul and a bruised body. Thorin had not truly eaten in more than six days. It had not looked to Bilbo like he had been able to enjoy food or sleep at any time during the quest, not as he and the others had. He smiled to him, acknowledging this rare moment when he was beginning to learn to live again, and scooped another spoonful.

Thorin ate half of the contents of the bowl, but it was still more than Bilbo had hoped for. He put the bowl back on its tray as the dwarf’s head leaned to his side and he fell asleep before realising it. The hobbit tucked the blanket close around his shoulders, then took the tray and returned it to the kitchen. Seeing Thorin finally eat with some sort of pleasure stirred Bilbo’s mood for a good supper of his own, so he remained in Bombur’s kitchen for a while longer.

~

It was about an hour later that Dwalin reentered Thorin’s chamber. He had a moment of respite from his other duties and his heart still twinged at the way their earlier encounter had gone. This time the hobbit was not there, and Thorin was asleep, so he could take his time and gather his wits.

Thorin lay with his back raised on a stack of thick pillows that Bilbo had arranged while Dwalin himself had held him in his arms, helping him into that position so that he would be able to eat. Now he seemed to have fallen back to sleep. His eyes were closed and his head lolled to his side.

Dwalin sat down on the edge of his bed and watched Thorin for a while. He still felt that he should be the one lying there wounded and in pain, and guilt mixed into poison with his resentment over the hobbit’s presence there, which he simply could not shake.

Thankfully, his glance was soon caught by the dagger that still lay on the night table, the same one that he had gifted to Thorin on the very morning of the day when Smaug had come. Thorin had not become aware of its presence through his short moments of consciousness. Dwalin took it and rolled it around in his hands, smiling at the memory of himself and the Dwarf Prince as they had been then.

As he stared into the past through the coloured gems carved into the knife’s handle, he heard a soft moan behind him. He turned and saw that Thorin had awoken and he was gazing at him with misty eyes. This was perhaps their first real meeting since the battle had ended, alone and both in possession of clearer minds.

Dwalin kept his smile and showed the dagger to Thorin. “Remember?”

Thorin’s eyes widened with a spark of life and he foolishly tried to sit further up. He failed with a deep groan.

“Lie still,” scolded Dwalin. “Here,” he said, pushing the dagger within the reach of Thorin’s hand.

Thorin took it, studied it with fond remembrance, perhaps of the same version of himself from the time when he had received it, and looked back to his friend. “Forgive me, Dwalin. I have let you down.”

Dwalin stared at him curiously, not really knowing what he was talking about, thinking that he was referring to the hobbit.

“I raised my sword upon you, my loyal friend,” said Thorin, regret blazing in his eyes.

“Oh, no, there is nothing to forgive. That was not you,” replied Dwalin, relieved.

“That is what Bilbo said,” murmured Thorin with a little smile.

“Well, it seems he and I agree on some things,” said Dwalin, then paused, and looked at his hands. “Thorin, it is I who should be asking for your forgiveness. I swore to protect you, but I failed. You almost died because I was not there when you needed me.”

Thorin drew in a sonorous breath. “Balin told me you saved my life, with Bilbo’s sword of all things.” His tone carried a certain amused irony.

Dwalin’s eyes flashed to him. “It was the best I could find.”

“I wondered why my wounds were burned. I did not remember facing fire in battle.”

Dwalin felt like he should apologize again, even if Thorin sounded at peace with what had happened. “I wish there had been another way. The Elves gave us something for it, but there are still going to be scars.”

“I think it is a fair trade,” spoke Thorin. “I did not expect to live.”

Dwalin looked up at him with a smile. “I hope you are not disappointed.”

Thorin shook his head. “Only surprised.”

Dwalin made another pause and his gaze descended back to his hands. There was still something on his mind and it weighed heavier than any guilt. “Thorin, there is something else that I must ask you,” he said, without lifting his eyes.

“You heard what I said to Bilbo. You and Balin both.”

Dwalin looked at him, feeling his blood boil against his will and against the love that he had for Thorin. “Is it true?”

“What dying man speaks lies?”

Dwalin lowered his gaze again, with a deep, funerary nod.

“It is you who is disappointed,” said Thorin, his voice clear.

“You are a king, Thorin,” replied Dwalin, hurt and anger barely controlled. “You know the rules of our people. Common Dwarves can do what they please, but not you.”

Thorin’s eyes quivered a little. “I do not have to do anything if I do not want it, even if I am a king.”

“But you do want it, with the wrong kind. I do not understand how you can-” He didn’t finish because he truly could not bring himself to say it, but he could hear disgust in his own voice and it hurt.

“I am sorry, Dwalin,” said Thorin weakly. “I cannot help it. Nor did I expect this to happen. I thought that part of me was long dead.”

“There were others?”

Thorin swallowed painfully. “One.”

Dwalin squinted at him, then he remembered their times in Dunland before the attack on Moria. They were desperate and poor. Thorin was young and less confident than he had become in the meantime. He could not blame him. No one would have desired the burden that lay on his shoulders, nor would anyone have done better by his duties. Dwalin had done his best to encourage Thorin on his difficult path. But there had been another with power over the Prince’s mood. In the last days before the battle, Nyrath, son of Nyr, a captain in the Dwarf army, had managed to put a smile on Thorin’s face when there seemed to be no chance for it. “Nyrath,” said Dwalin. “He was more than your friend, wasn’t he?”

Thorin confirmed. “He believed in me, as you did. And I buried my heart with him in the mound of bodies in which he burned.”

Dwalin felt his anger fade. He remembered the horror of having to burn their dead after the battle of Azanulbizar since they could not bury them into tombs of stone as was their way. Thorin’s grandfather, King Thror had been among them, and many others they cared for. He sighed, shaking that black memory. “It appears that our burglar has dug up more than the Arkenstone,” he said, surprisingly amused.

Thorin smiled in return.

“What are your intentions with him?” asked Dwalin.

“Only those which he will accept. I do not know if he...”

“He doesn't either,” interrupted Dwalin “I asked him if he felt the same and he said he didn't know.”

“An honest answer,” said Thorin. “I should not have kept this from you,” he continued. “But I knew that it would sully your regard of me.”

Dwalin also faced him with honesty and he knew that Thorin could read the truth of his guess in his eyes. There was no point in hiding his broken heart, but he was more confident now that it would not remain broken forever. “It is something that I will have to accept if this is what would make you truly happy,” he said. Thorin opened his mouth to say something, but Dwalin raised a finger to silence him. “Balin is right. You have sacrificed enough already. You should be allowed to make this choice. I have saved your life, but I do not really have the right to tell you how to live it. No one does. Not anymore.”

There were small tears running down Thorin’s cheeks by now.

Dwalin laid a hand on Thorin’s and squeezed it. “Just get well, and be a king. We’ll figure out the rest eventually.”

Thorin accepted with a nod, and Dwalin got up. “Let me help you lie back down,” he said. “You need to sleep properly.”

With gestures that were free of any passion, he lifted Thorin’s upper body in his arms and let him lean against his shoulder while he arranged his pillows. It felt very much like an embrace and it was an embrace. It was exactly what both of them needed. Dwalin set Thorin gently on his back and he was glad to observe that his eyes were drying.

Then he placed a few more logs into the fire and took his leave with a bow of his forehead. His heart was lighter now that everything was out in the open, but anger and worry had given way to a different kind of pain. The pain that he could not understand Thorin’s feelings and that knowing of their existence had indeed changed his regard of him. He had thought that it would be easier once he would know for sure that Thorin would live. He had thought that the joy of knowing him alive and of not having his death on his conscience would drown his resentments, but it looked as if he had been wrong.

~

With his belly full and his own soul comforted, Bilbo thanked Bombur for supper and left the royal kitchen of Erebor to take back his appointed place at Thorin’s bedside.

When he entered the bedroom, he noticed that Thorin was lying on his back again and appeared to be sleeping comfortably. There was not much calling his attention at that time, so Bilbo simply sat down on the thick carpet that covered the floor around the bed and leaned his elbows against its side.

He was about to fall asleep in that strange position when he heard the rustle of bed sheets close to his ear. He looked up and saw Thorin gazing at him drowsily.

“You must be uncomfortable on the floor,” said Thorin. “Come up on my bed. It is big enough.”

Bilbo raised his head, sleepiness gone. “Fit for a king,” he quipped, glad that he could resort to wit in order to conceal his slight panic.

Thorin smiled back.

“I’m fine, Thorin,” said Bilbo. “You’re hurt. You don’t need someone stirring it up by rolling around in your bed. I’ll just go back to my armchair.” He stood up with a groan as the stiffness in his body resisted. “Well, your armchair.”

He went over to it and sat down, hardly managing to mask his pain.

“Please,” insisted Thorin, “I do not want you to suffer on my account.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “I’m not suffering.”

“And what was that groan about?”

Bilbo returned a glare, but had to admit that Thorin had a point.

“No armchair is made to be slept in for nights on end,” said Thorin.

“Well, I suppose I could lie down for a bit,” accepted Bilbo and climbed off the armchair.

His only worry was that he might end up feeling more uncomfortable lying in Thorin’s bed, as cozy and warm as it looked, than he felt having his poor bones crunched against the back of the armchair. He wondered if he should read anything into Thorin’s invitation, whether there was some hidden meaning in his acceptance of it, whether perhaps he was making another promise that he was not entirely ready to make. Yet, looking into Thorin’s weary gaze, he understood that he was merely offering him a better place to sleep after days of curling up in an armchair and after months and months of lying in all sorts of unforgiving places. It was strange for a hobbit to hesitate before a soft bed, but Bilbo had become accustomed to hardship and had even learned to brave it with a resilience he didn’t know he had. But perhaps the time had come for him to rest again and lay aside the troubles of the wide world.

He smiled and lay down gently beside Thorin, pulling the blanket over his legs. Letting his head sink again into a good pillow was the most wonderful thing he had ever experienced if someone had asked him at that very moment. The bed felt harder than his own bed at home, but it was perfect. He also could not help noticing the quality of the bedding. Even if it was over a century old, the fabric still felt dense and strong. This was clearly the expensive kind of linens, something Dwarf royals afforded easily.

“This was not such a bad idea,” he hummed, settling more comfortably into his newfound land of bliss.

Thorin returned a smile, looking satisfied. The blanket covered him up to his chest, which rose slowly, contained in a loose white dressing for the slash wound on his right. Little dark hairs poked out from under the bandage, forming a fuzzy cloud over his skin that shrunk into a line as it approached his neck. Bilbo realised that he had never looked at Thorin so closely. Perhaps it should have unnerved him and he should have wondered if it meant anything, but he didn’t. He simply looked in sheer curiosity and mused over how his body had been shaped by the way he had lived, and over how unlike a hobbit’s it was. Bilbo had long lost his rounder edges to the hunger and sleeplessness he had endured throughout the quest, but he certainly hadn’t grown any hair where it did not belong. Most hobbits were soft and plump, as made by their quiet lives and their persistence in getting six meals a day. Some, especially the older ones, were even fat, no matter how indulgently one looked at them. Some of the dwarves were fat, too, as they also seemed to enjoy food and drink to a healthy degree. But not Thorin. Thorin was all firm angles and hard muscle. Even the curb of his uninjured right shoulder, which glowed softly in the light of a candle, seemed to be fashioned from rock instead of flesh. But Bilbo knew better than he liked that Thorin was made of flesh and blood, as he was himself.

Bilbo had not truly realised how badly he needed to lie down until that moment when Thorin had offered him a place in his bed. He was no longer worried about hidden meanings, no longer afraid that this was inappropriate in some way. He was simply grateful that he could sleep in a real bed again, and that he lived once more in times of peace, that he was safe and his belly was full, and that Thorin was all right.

“Wake me up if you need anything,” said Bilbo, and allowed his eyes to close after Thorin had nodded and drifted back into slumber.

The one thing that Bilbo missed was his home, with its simple charm and its ivy-framed windows. But it seemed that he would have to wait a while longer until he would see it again. 


	8. Etchings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Thorin finally talk about their feelings...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, finally! As always, I'd love to know what you think! Thank you to everyone who's reading :)

In his sweet sleep, alive with the scent of a warmer season in the Shire, Bilbo felt a light pressure on his leg. He ignored it at first, not wanting to pull himself away from the bliss in which he floated, but then he remembered in a flash that he was not in his bed at home and that he was not alone. He opened his eyes startled only to meet the soft-glowing gaze of Thorin, king under the mountain which sheltered both of them from the wintery winds outside. The pressure on the hobbit’s thigh came from his hand, which rested there in tentative appeal. It withdrew at once.

“Thorin? What is it?”

“Thirsty,” whispered the dwarf.

“Oh, of course,” said Bilbo, then rose painfully on an elbow and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I am sorry,” said Thorin, sounding as if, whatever it was he regretted, he truly meant it.

“For what?” Bilbo squinted back to him, trying to accustom his eyes to the glare of the candle that burned at Thorin’s side.

“For waking you up.”

Bilbo cracked a little smile. “I’m glad you didn’t try to get it yourself.”

“I couldn’t even if I tried.”

“It’s certainly good to know one’s limitations,” declared Bilbo, hauling himself out of bed and stretching his back and arms.

Thorin did not reply, and the hobbit threw a glance at him over his shoulder to see if he was annoyed with his remark. He was not. The dwarf was smiling at him subtly.

Then Bilbo went over to his side and collected the water pitcher that rested on his night table. “I’ll be right back,” he said and stepped away slowly with the pitcher wrapped tightly in his arms.

“Bilbo,” called Thorin softly just as the hobbit was ready to open the door. “Put something on.”

Bilbo looked back to him and then looked at himself. He was only wearing a light shirt, more than enough to feel comfortable in Thorin’s warm bedroom, but it was probably not as warm outside in the sitting room and especially not in the corridor that led to the Royal Kitchens. Thorin had a point.

“Right,” said Bilbo and went back for the felt coat that Balin had given him a couple of days before. He wrapped it around himself and finally stepped out of the room.

He was grateful for Thorin’s warning the moment he found himself outside his door. As late in the night as it probably was, the air was much cooler under the high ceilings of the royal quarters without a fire burning in a hearth somewhere. Still, the surroundings were made pleasant by the torches that flickered steadily in their wall mounts, lighting the way.

Only one sound broke the eerie silence of the kitchen: the bubbling of spring water that ran from the deep darkness of the mountain through a small round tunnel inside the wall and into a basin. He placed the pitcher under the stream of water and waited for it to fill up. Then he put it aside and reached both hands, palms gathered in a cup, under the silvery thread. The water was icy and it chased whatever trace of sleepiness still mollified Bilbo’s bones. He took a few drinks of it himself. He had never tasted water so pure and so refreshing, not even from the deep wells of the Shire. And he could think of nothing better to soothe Thorin’s thirst.

He returned to him, carrying the pitcher with both hands. Thorin was still very much awake and smiled softly at the sight of the hobbit. He had managed to extract his arms from under the covers and they both lay idle at his side, partly wrapped in bandages. His braids were long undone, and his rings had been removed from his fingers and put away safely. The only remaining marks of his status were his golden ear cuffs, and a tattoo of what Bilbo had come to recognize as his royal seal on his right shoulder and arm, which he had not looked at carefully until then. As striking as it was, Bilbo had to admit that he found the idea of having something etched into his skin or of wearing anything on his ears to be just as uncomfortable as that of wearing shoes.

He did not impart that opinion to the Dwarf King. Instead, Bilbo poured some water into a cup and then helped him keep his head raised high enough to drink. His fingers registered the rich silk of Thorin’s freshly washed hair with brilliant keenness, and he was almost sorry when he had to part with it as the dwarf finished his water.

“All right?” asked Bilbo.

Thorin nodded, and Bilbo laid his head back on his pillow gently.

Then he straightened his shoulders and looked around the stately bedroom, with its rising walls of dark-green polished stone, decorated with intricate patterns trimmed in gold, wondering, as Fili and Dain had asked him before, what indeed he was still doing in that place. It had been his choice to come all that way and help the dwarves retake their mountain kingdom, but the quest was over and so was his adventure. The dwarves had earned a warm place in his heart, but he was a hobbit from the Shire and it was time to go back home, to soft hills and round doorways.

And yet, even if he had been given the chance to leave that very instant, and make the journey home in complete safety and in possession of all necessary supplies, he would have stayed right where he was. There was something about the way Thorin looked at him, even in his weakened state, that made him feel as if his adventure was not over at all. Somewhere in the dim glimmer of his tired eyes, Bilbo could glimpse some truth about himself that would have remained forever hidden if he had chosen to part with his company at that moment.

Even if he could not ignore that he found himself in the bedchamber of a prince, Bilbo also realised that it was still a bedchamber. The fire cracked and sputtered its red little clouds of live sparks in the hearth of a Dwarf kingdom in the East the same as it did in his own hobbit hole in the Shire. It was just as warm and made him just as prone to want to hide under a soft blanket, listen to its blazing tune and give himself to the sweetest of dreams.

Yet, he could not give in to that wish as easily here as he would have at home.It was not his own bed that he would have lain in. Here he would have lain next to Thorin, in the bed of his youth, where he had perhaps dreamed the grand dreams that were the night realm of princes, dreams that had shattered under the sharp light of day. He had nearly shattered himself chasing them, and for the sake of all that, Bilbo could no longer pretend that they could go on without speaking of the one thing neither of them had mentioned but that was obviously on both of their minds. He knew by now that someone like Thorin did not make confessions of love without meaning to do something about them, and even if he had made his confession with the shadow of death hanging low over him, it had not been made in vain.

“Thorin,” he began, “before I lie back down in your bed, I think that there are things we need to discuss.”

Thorin agreed with a slow blink, which put a lump in Bilbo’s throat. He had hoped that Thorin would continue where he had left off before he had fallen unconscious and would tell him in clear and reassuring details what exactly he had meant with the words _I love you_ , what he planned to do about it and what he expected Bilbo to do. That seemed not to be the case, however, and Bilbo answered first his sudden need to sit down by seating himself on the edge of Thorin’s bed.

He decided to begin by justifying his presence there. “Balin has asked me to stay with you while you’re recovering and -”

“He should not have asked that of you,” interrupted Thorin.

“Why not?”

“Your duty with me is done.”

“I am not here because of any duty,” said Bilbo after a long pause.

“Why are you still here, Bilbo?” asked Thorin, his voice trailing like smoke on a low autumn evening.

Bilbo stared at him in disbelief “How could I leave after what you said to me?”

“I did not say what I said in order to chain you to my bed.”

“I know. You were expecting to die, but you didn’t. And unless you take that back as well, I feel that I must answer… in some way.”

“I do not take it back.”

“I had a feeling you wouldn’t,” said Bilbo and nodded, or rather allowed his head to droop under a strong wave of dizziness, as if he had been tumbling down yet another tunnel in the Misty Mountains. He composed himself and looked back to Thorin. “I’m here because I feel something for you, but I don’t have a name for it. All I know is that I cannot go back home until I find one.”

Thorin smiled a warm, deep smile. “I would not ask more of you. And it does not mean anything in particular if you sleep in my bed other than keeping me company and getting the rest you need. You have nothing to fear from me, Bilbo, not anymore.”

“I don’t fear you, Thorin. It’s just that this is not exactly the kind of adventure I dreamed of as a young hobbit running off into the woods.”

“That is true of me as well, as a young dwarf, of course.”

Bilbo smiled in return. “Can I ask you something?”

Thorin nodded.

“I need to be certain. What did you mean? That you love me as a, a friend?”

Thorin smirked. “Would you find it difficult to return that statement?”

“No,” said Bilbo, wincing.

“That is not what I meant, Bilbo. I think of you as much more than a friend.”

Bilbo swallowed painfully. “Do you not also think of Dwalin as more than a friend?”

“Yes, but in a different way. I think of Dwalin as a brother, although at the moment he probably has trouble thinking of me that way.”

“Because of me?”

“No. Because of me.”

“So, what am I to you?”

“Everything.”

Bilbo felt his eyes stinging badly and suddenly. He held the tears at bay with a jab of irony. “So you don’t give mithril to all your friends.”

“No,” said Thorin.

The glow in his eyes and in his voice made it impossible for Bilbo to hold back his tears. They flowed silently down his cheeks and he could no longer look at Thorin. He did not know exactly why he was crying, but it felt good, like a great relief and like a great reward at the same time, one that honoured him more than any share of the treasure of Erebor. “I’m sorry,” he said, wiping his face with his bare hand.

“I did not want to say that now,” said Thorin, “but you asked. You also do not have to say anything now. Or ever, if there is nothing to be said.”

“There is,” replied Bilbo, his voice a little shaky. “I would not be here now if there weren’t.”

Thorin smiled as if he had expected Bilbo to say that, then his eyelids started drooping.

“You’re tired, you should sleep,” said Bilbo and stood up, sniffing.

He went over to his side of the bed and lay down, pulling the blanket over himself. As he wedged an arm under his head and kept gazing through the sweet mist of his drying tears at Thorin’s profile, he felt that a great whirlwind had been quieted inside him, at least for the time being.

Thorin allowed his eyes to close. His features sagged a little under the wing of exhaustion, but he roused again and turned his head to Bilbo, pain blooming in his eyes

“What hurts?” asked Bilbo.

Thorin tilted his forehead towards his bandaged left arm and shoulder. He had spear wounds in both, and even if they had been sealed shut, the torn muscles were probably aching badly.

“Maybe I can help,” said Bilbo, remembering that rubbing a bumped knee had always helped him feel better.

He extended a hand over Thorin’s forearm and began stroking it up to the edge of the dressing that covered the wound in his arm and back down to the wrist. Thorin smiled and closed his eyes again. This time they stayed closed and his smile lingered.

Bilbo’s gesture truly did not mean anything other than wanting to relieve Thorin’s pain, but he most certainly felt something at that very moment, when his skin was in such close contact with Thorin’s. It was not friendship of any kind he had experienced before. This was more like an invisible spider’s web was being woven between them with every touch, as if something of his skin remained on Thorin’s in the wake of his stroking palm, and something of Thorin’s skin remained on his. He realised with more clarity that two persons, even a dwarf king and a simple hobbit, could not go through so much peril together without leaving a mark on each other. It felt like, in stroking Thorin’s arm, he was brushing aside the dust of the storm that had just passed them to reveal the etchings that one had made on the other. Perhaps, after enough dust had been brushed off, he would have been able to read on his own skin the name of what it was that he felt for Thorin, and he would have been able to tell it to him.

He stopped stroking when he became convinced that Thorin was sound asleep, but did not take away his hand immediately. He had begun to think that his hand looked rather impressive when wrapped around the hilt of his sword, but now it appeared so small as it rested on the dwarf’s thick wrist. He dozed off turning that thought in his mind.

When he woke again, it was not of his own will. It was the feeling of something lifting his hand softly from where it resided that plucked him from sleep. He opened his eyes and saw Balin smiling down at him as he withdrew the hand that he had used to free Thorin from his clutch.

Bilbo jumped up on an elbow, feeling entirely inappropriate. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, turning a bright shade of red.

Balin waved it off. “Oh, nothing to feel sorry about. I was going to suggest it myself, but I didn’t know how Thorin would feel about it.”

Bilbo blinked in confusion. “Suggest what?”

“That you stay in his bed. It is the best way for you to be able to watch him and get your rest.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose it is,” said Bilbo, sitting up and taking a bit of time to compose himself. He got up, as Balin put down the dressings that he was carrying in his arms.

“I’m going to need your help today, Bilbo,” said Balin. “Some of Bard’s people arrived from Dale yesterday. Oin has a few new patients that need him more.”

“I understand,” said Bilbo. “Can I ask you something first?”

“Certainly.”

“May we go outside?”

Balin looked surprised but he agreed.

They both walked out into the sitting room and Bilbo paced a bit, fidgeting with his hands at his back before he stopped and spoke, over his shoulder. “Do the others know?”

“I think they know something,” said Balin, the very sound of peace.

It soothed Bilbo’s nerves and it frayed them at the same time. He turned fully. “May I ask why no one but Dwalin seems bothered by it?”

“I take it you have discussed the matter with Thorin,” said Balin, raising an eyebrow.

“We have talked about it, yes,” replied Bilbo, under his breath “Balin, there is something I need to know about your people. Gandalf told me that Dwarves are more... accepting of such things.” He paused, spying the twinkle of understanding that he expected to see in Balin’s eyes even if he seemed to hold no suspicion about Bilbo sharing Thorin’s bed. The twinkle was there, so Bilbo continued. “Shire Hobbits are quite the opposite. They find even talking to other folk odd. I imagine I am already the talk of Hobbiton. Going off on adventures with a bunch of Dwarves and not returning for three seasons… Unheard of, really…”

Balin smiled thinly “I see. What Gandalf told you is true.”

“Because there are only a few women among your kin?”

“That is part of it, yes. Sadly, even fewer since the unfortunate incident with the dragon. Many of them were too deep inside the mountain to escape in time.”

“Oh, that is unfortunate.”

“Yes, a very sad affair indeed,” said Balin and thought to himself for a while. “So, indeed, we do not blame those who seek alternatives. Or those who choose not to seek company at all.”

They looked at each other for a while. Bilbo reclined slowly against the back of a large chair, musing that, until very recently, he had thought he had belonged in the latter category. He crossed his arms and smiled. “I imagine though that if a royal wanted to… secure his line, there would be options.”

“Oh, certainly,” said Balin. “But Thorin has expressed no such desire so far. Too much on his mind, you see.”

“Mhm… What about from now on? He’s got his kingdom back, after all.”

“A kingdom in ruins,” chuckled Balin. “His days of having too much on his mind are certainly not numbered. And he has expressed an interest in you. His line is secure in Fili and Kili. He has raised both of them to be kings after him. I advise discretion, Bilbo, but you needn’t worry about what we think.”

“Has Thorin ever… expressed such desires before?”

“Not to me, and I believe that is something you should ask him.”

Bilbo looked at the old dwarf without blinking. “I’m asking you.”

Balin peered at him from under his eyebrows. “Laddie, in all honesty, I do not know if Thorin has had such desires before, but none of us are all that surprised. He was very young when Erebor was lost. He was raised to be king after his father. He grew up with no doubt in his mind that that was his destiny. And then the dragon came one day, and all of that crashed and burned in his wake. Marriage never seemed to enter Thorin’s plans after that, because he had no kingdom to bequeath to his heirs.”

“What about Fili and Kili?”

“They were his sister-sons. He had to take responsibility for them after their father died. I think that looking after us has taken too much of his heart for him to think about starting his own family. I suppose we are all his family, and he has always thought of us in that way. Being a king is very serious business, Bilbo, and I suspect that something broke inside Thorin when we were driven out of Erebor. He was never quite the same.”

Bilbo lowered his gaze. “I understand.”

“I don’t know if that helps you, but it is all I can offer for an explanation, if ever there can be one for such things.”

Bilbo looked back up to Balin. His own concern for why he felt the way he felt had lost its urgency. It seemed to matter less than Thorin’s lifetime of sorrow, and certainly less than what he could do then and there to make his journey back to health a little easier.

“Now,” said Balin, “if there is nothing else...”

“No, thank you, Balin.”

They went back inside Thorin’s room and Balin walked on to his bed.

“Bilbo, will you be a good lad and fill this bowl with cold water?” he said, indicating the bowl that Oin had used the previous day for cleaning Thorin’s wounds and which now sat on the table near his bed.

Bilbo complied, but as he watched the water pouring, a deep anxiety crept over him at the thought that he would have to watch again the necessary but gruesome ritual of cleaning Thorin’s wounds.

As he returned to the bedroom, he saw that Thorin was awake, or at least he was beginning to wake.

He walked up to Balin’s side and placed the bowl of water back on the table. Thorin glanced at him, his face already glistening softly with a thin layer of sweat. Balin had begun cutting the dressings from his wounds.

“Bilbo,” he said, “I’ll need you to start cleaning these with water. I have to check on the lads. I won’t be long.”

“But-” began Bilbo.

“Don’t worry, there’s not much to it. Just press gently and don’t rub. Just like Oin did yesterday. And rinse each time. You’ll do fine.”

Bilbo knew that he did not have much choice. He looked in growing terror as Thorin’s body was being bared of the dressings that kept the many gashes, burns and bruises hidden from his view. He could hardly conceive of touching them even if it was in Thorin’s best interest, and he stood there for a while, staring at the shapeless pools of darker and lighter red on Thorin’s body as if that was all he was made of. His eyes went down to the long cut over his stomach. It had not gone deep enough to do any lethal damage, but it had been bleeding profusely enough to warrant being sealed shut with the fire-heated blade of Bilbo’s little sword. It was inflamed, like all of the other larger wounds and some of the burned flakes were starting to peel off, leaving a moist, pink layer of raw skin underneath that made Bilbo’s stomach turn, not in disgust, but in sheer dread.

Thorin’s left forearm, which he had stroked the night before, was flawless, and it was as if it belonged to another person, to the Thorin who was recognizable to him and who spoke to him in his veiled velvet tone that was only weaker, but not much different from the voice he had become accustomed to over the past year and that he associated with safety more than with anything else. The flawless forearm belonged to the Thorin who was indeed injured and bedridden and needed help, but whose injuries Bilbo could not see and could therefore ignore.

It only took a blink of his eyes to see that the same forearm had above it a strong, but horribly damaged arm and shoulder, with more mangled flesh and unsavoury patches of raw skin. And then his glance travelled to Thorin’s eyes, which he could most certainly recognize as belonging to no one else. They reflected his horror back to him.

“You should not have to see me like this,” whispered Thorin.

Thorin’s words stung more than the sight of his wounds. Bilbo realised that he had been standing there staring all that time. He had not even noticed when Balin had left the room. “It’s all right, Thorin,” he said, collecting a clean cloth from the table, and dunking it in the cold, fresh water.

He approached the bed and laid the wet cloth first on a less intimidating wound on Thorin’s right arm. He pressed down very gently, trying to remember the way Oin had worked the previous day. It did not elicit any violent reaction from Thorin, so Bilbo felt encouraged to continue. It was only when he touched one of the burned wounds that Thorin protested enough for him to jump back, startled. He looked up at him and noticed that his face was now shining with sweat.

“I can stop for a while, if you want,” offered Bilbo.

Thorin shook his head slowly and closed his eyes as the hobbit simply laid the wet cloth over his wound and his hand on top of it, without pressure. Thorin did not react much after that, although Bilbo was convinced that he was suffering.

When Balin returned, he was already washing Thorin’s left arm, and as he glanced up to greet the old dwarf, he could see that there were thin threads of tears flowing from the corners of Thorin’s eyes. He was grateful for the distraction of Balin’s presence and even more so when he offered to take over.

Bilbo stepped away and went over to the other side of the bed. He peered absently inside the jar where he expected to find the Elvish concoction that they had been using to bind Thorin’s wounds. Yet, that was not what the jar contained.

“Is that... honey?” he asked, looking wide-eyed at Balin.

“It is,” said Balin. “The Elvish stuff ran out yesterday. Fortunately, we found a few jars of honey lying around the pantry.”

Thorin opened his eyes as he heard Bilbo’s question and looked at him, visibly distracted from his pains.

“All it took was warming it up a little,” continued Balin. “It also has a bit of bee glue in it. It is just what we needed. It will help with the pain as well.” He said this last sentence looking down at Thorin, who returned a hopeful gaze.

Bilbo finally smiled without going to a lot of trouble for it. He remained at Thorin’s side as Balin finished cleaning his wounds and then applied the honey. It seemed to work immediately, as Thorin looked less distressed at the end of the procedure.

Bilbo only lent a helping hand again when Balin required assistance with securing the new dressings. It felt like a great shadow had been erased from the world when Thorin’s wounds were wrapped again and out of sight. And it seemingly made Thorin feel better as well.

He was now lying still on his back, looking exhausted but greatly relieved. Sweat still glistened on his forehead, and Bilbo collected a clean cloth from the pile on the supply table and went to the bathroom and rinsed it in warm water. He wiped Thorin’s face gently with it, earning a little smile of gratitude.

Balin drew the blankets back up over Thorin’s chest. “I don’t suppose you want breakfast right now,” he said, looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

Thorin shook his head. He truly did not look like he had energy or appetite for it at that very moment.

“Right,” said Balin. “Well, get some rest then, and tell Bilbo when you’re hungry.”

Balin winked at him and Thorin smiled back. Then, Balin looked at Bilbo, and Bilbo couldn’t help doing the same. Balin gathered the soiled dressings and left the room, leaving Bilbo alone again with the Dwarf King.

Thorin’s head began lolling to his side, but his eyes did not close yet.

Bilbo had a good mind to sit back on the edge of his bed and watch him fall asleep, but then he remembered something. “Thorin?” he said. “Would you like some more water?”

Thorin looked up at him, his gaze revived, as if he had wanted to ask for it all along but hadn’t had the energy to do so.

Bilbo poured some of the fresh spring water into a cup and helped Thorin drink. His head weighed heavier in Bilbo’s hand this time, which caused him to slip his whole arm under it. They were very close and Bilbo felt a need rising from somewhere deep and dark inside him to press his mouth and his nose to Thorin’s soft-looking temple. He resisted it however. He would not have known what to do afterwards, what to say to Thorin, or even how to look into his eyes, if he had given in to that wish. He waited for Thorin to finish and then withdrew his arm slowly, and helped him lie back on his pillow. Thorin raised a pair of radiating eyes to him as their faces were still close, making him glad that he had not made any more forward gestures.

He straightened his back and blew out the candle that still burned inside the night lantern at Thorin’s bedside. Morning brightness had begun to sift into the room through its crystal windows, making Bilbo feel comfortable and free even if he was very deep inside a mountain. The light that came through into the dwarf city was not straightforward and clear as it was in Bag End. Here, daylight always had a magical, pearlescent quality, flowing in woolly rays of changing colour and consistency as the hours rose and fell. It looked as if he would have been able to touch the light, grab handfuls of it and wrap it around himself like a shawl.

Finally, Bilbo decided to lie back beside Thorin and stay with him at least until he fell asleep. Thorin turned his head to him as Bilbo settled down. Pools of the same secret light glimmered in the dwarf’s eyes, and Bilbo smiled to him and slowly sought his hand under the covers. It was still cold and clammy, but Bilbo allowed his fingers to be caught in its feeble grip. It seemed as if the pain that one had witnessed and the other had suffered had forged a new bond between them, a bond that neither of them wanted to break.


	9. Always My King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Thorin get even closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9 is up! I hope you enjoy it! Thorin certainly enjoys at least part of it :)  
> Also, I want to thank everybody for your comments. You're helping me so much in moving this story along!

Days waned and nights lengthened as winter fell harsher and whiter over the Lonely Mountain and the valley of Dale. It was never pitch black inside the mountain, not even in the smallest hours of the night, as countless lanterns and torches filled its halls with the golden glow of fire, but the torches burned longer and Bilbo could tell from the thinning thread of the light that came in from the outside that the sun was getting weaker by the day.

His life in the growing darkness of the mountain was filled with pain and pleasure alike, and he did not have anyone to talk to about it. Not really. He knew that, in the absence of Gandalf, he could always ask Balin to lend an ear to whatever was troubling him, but he was not sure than anyone could have truly helped him with what was troubling him now.

Something was happening to him, something unexpected, and frightening at the same time, as all things new and unknown. He had believed that talking openly with Thorin about his confession of love and finding out exactly what he had meant by it would make things easier for him. He had believed that getting rid of the doubt over how Thorin felt about him would free him of that nagging anxiety that kept lurking at the back of his mind. And, indeed, there was no more doubt in his mind about how Thorin felt when he washed his hair or when he wiped the cold sweat off his forehead or when he lay in bed next to him. But it had not made things any easier. It had only made it harder for him to know how to respond to that, and, in turn, it only added to his anguish. It only hurt more that he could not easily return the serene and steadfast love that he saw many times in Thorin’s eyes. All he could return was uncertainty and fear.

Still, he remained faithfully at Thorin’s side. The Dwarf King was recovering slowly but steadily. The changing of his dressings remained an excruciating experience for all involved, and Bilbo was involved more often than not, but at least Thorin was able to sleep better and his appetite was growing healthier. He tired easily, however, and it was usually the conversations about matters of the kingdom with Dain and Balin that left him equally drained and frustrated. Bilbo remained present at these meetings although he personally thought that he had no business being there. He always started to leave, and Thorin always stopped him. Bilbo stayed every time, but usually withdrew in a shadowy corner of the room, not really making himself part of a discussion that did not concern him, but hovering within earshot of it. He felt much like a ghost at these times, like he was made of the shadow, which listened and lingered voiceless, close to Thorin, and the many burdens he still carried.

Thorin often looked like something boiled hot inside him afterwards, but his features loosened whenever Bilbo stepped out of the shadows and came back by his bed. He was not saying it, but Bilbo saw in his eyes that he had begun to hate that bed, which had kept him imprisoned in its soft, white arms for more than two weeks and which was not going to let go for a while longer.

It was at these times that Bilbo felt less afraid to touch Thorin. He often sat down on the side of his bed and took his hand into both of his. It was here that pleasure sparked, in timid caresses. These had become his favourite moments, but also the source of hours of lying awake at Thorin’s side while the dwarf slept peacefully, wondering what lay beneath his gestures and beneath his undeniable desire to be with him.

Bilbo was lying awake now, but it was nothing out of the ordinary, as he would not have slept at that hour anyway. It was midday and the room was filled with crystalline light.

Suddenly, Bilbo’s ears registered the sound of a door moving outside. He sat up, got out of bed and waited. He knew what he was waiting for, or rather for whom. He waited for Oin, who was coming to give Thorin his massage.

For the past week, Oin had been coming every day to massage Thorin’s legs in order to exercise their muscles and to relieve his pain. It was a ritual in itself, much like the cleaning and dressing of his wounds, but of a much more pleasant kind, as there were nicely fragrant oils being used and Thorin was smiling all the way through.

Bilbo often took that as an opportunity to go for walks, or visit Fili and Kili, or see what the other members of the Company were up to. It was not just the need for fresh air, which was nothing unnatural, to be sure. It was also that he felt uncomfortable seeing Thorin undressed for something that did not involve wound care. And his left leg was not wounded at all, save for a few bruises here and there, which had faded a while back. His left leg was perfect in every way, and it scared him to think so.

When Oin walked inside the bedroom, Bilbo was standing casually by Thorin’s bed, giving no indication that he had been spending his nights in it for the past week and that he had been lying in it until about a minute before.

Oin only greeted him with a twitch of his great moustache, indicating a smile. It was not the first time they had seen each other that day, as Oin had also been the one to change Thorin’s dressings that morning. He came up by the bed and looked down at Thorin, who was deeply asleep.

Bilbo opened his mouth to speak, but waited until Oin had properly set his hearing trumpet into his ear, which was useless without it.

“I think I’ll step outside for a while,” said Bilbo, starting to walk away.

Oin cleared his throat and the sound of it made the hobbit stop. “Bilbo, I thought that you might do this today.”

Bilbo stared back at him. “Excuse me?”

“Well, you’re with him almost all the time,” said Oin. “This is something that you could do perhaps more often.”

Bilbo turned so he could stare properly, and wonder if Oin really did not think it would be at least inappropriate.

“It will probably be another two weeks before he can get out of bed,” continued Oin, “and sadly I have a lot of patients to tend to.”

There was nothing but reason in Oin’s tone of voice and his request seemed to stem from entirely practical concerns, but all Bilbo could hear was an invitation to disaster. He could not imagine how he would be able to touch Thorin’s legs when he could barely look at them, how he would stand to let his fingers roam across their tan skin and sink into their firm flesh without his heart bursting. “I,” he hesitated.

“It isn’t hard. I’ll show you,” offered Oin.

Bilbo wished he could have told Oin that it was not the difficulty of the procedure itself that he feared. “All right, I suppose,” was all he could really say, and he felt so suddenly faint that a new fear sprang fresh in his belly, of falling to the floor senseless.

“Good,” said Oin, and motioned towards a collection of small bottles that rested on Thorin’s night table. “First, you must use this. It’s lavender and sandalwood,” he said, picking up one of the bottles. “When it runs out, tell me, and I’ll get you some more.”

“When it runs out?” asked Bilbo. “I’m not going to be doing this just today, am I.”

Oin shot him a guilty look. “If you won’t mind.”

“No, no, not at all,” Bilbo lied, holding a hitch in his breath.

Oin smiled to him, looking like he believed him, and gave him the oil bottle. Then he proceeded to uncover Thorin’s good left leg. “You will have to be careful around the wound on the other leg,” he said, “but other than that, you should do fine.”

Bilbo smiled back nervously, his attention pulled against himself by the careful, slow motion of Oin’s hands as he drew aside the cover from over Thorin.

They all handled him with great care, Balin, and Oin, and Dwalin, as if he was about to break if touched more firmly. And it was not far from the truth. But Bilbo could perceive something else in the gestures of Thorin’s caregivers. It was not just thoughtfulness. It was an exalted affection, a reverence for the body that they were touching, as if it was not entirely like their own, not entirely of their world, as if it was something to be worshipped, especially now that it was wounded and weak. He was their king, after all, and it was probably how Dwarves revered their kings since ages. But for Bilbo it was new and overwhelming, for Hobbits had no kings.

Oin seemed very used to worshipping something and touching it at the same time. As he finished uncovering Thorin’s leg, he turned to Bilbo and said something which the hobbit could not hear.

“Bilbo?” he repeated.

“Yes,” Bilbo snapped out of his stupor, “sorry. Can you say that again?”

“Can I have the bottle?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Bilbo and relinquished the bottle of oil that he had been holding all along.

Oin poured some of its contents into his palm. “You have to coat your hands in the oil like this,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “It’s best if your hands are not too cold.” Bilbo nodded at that. “Then you stroke long and not too hard, like this,” said Oin, laying both hands on Thorin’s thigh, his fingers digging only slightly into its thick muscle, which began to glow softly as Oin spread the oil over it.

Thorin did not stir.

“Now you try it,” said Oin, looking at Bilbo.

In turn, Bilbo looked at his hands, which felt very cold all of a sudden. He felt cold all over and deep inside. He excused himself and went over to the hearth to warm his hands over the fire. Then he went back, feeling as if his feet were clinging to the floor. He reluctantly held out his palms for Oin to pour some of the oil into them.

“Don’t worry,” said Oin, “you’re not going to hurt him.”

Bilbo smiled painfully at the irony of that remark, which only he was aware of. He was already hurting Thorin, and he was sure that he was about to hurt him even more, should he have woken up.

Still, Bilbo knew that he no longer had a choice. He turned towards Thorin as he had turned to face the giant spiders in Mirkwood, only this time he felt completely disarmed. He looked down at Thorin’s leg and something heavy dropped in his stomach. He also knew, however, that Oin was watching him closely, and that he could not simply stand there and stare for much longer.

Thorin continued to sleep undisturbed, knowing nothing of the tremor in Bilbo’s hands as he lowered them over the round mound of his kneecap and let them glide up his widening thigh. It felt warm and nicely firm but not unyielding. It filled his hands and somehow it filled his heart as well. He had never touched anything like that before and had never really gained that sensation of complete happiness out of touching anything. It was like his whole body wanted nothing else at that moment, and neither did his mind. Bilbo found himself smiling.

“You seem to be doing very well,” a pleased voice announced at his side.

Bilbo winced a little. He had forgotten that Oin was there and he had forgotten that he was nervous about the whole thing. He looked up and saw the dwarf healer smiling at him and nodding, his hands gathered over his belly. And then he heard a low sigh below him. Thorin was stirring awake.

Bilbo froze as he watched Thorin open his eyes slowly and settle his gaze first on Oin. His eyes opened wider in unmasked surprise. Then he turned his head and looked up at whoever had a hand pressing on his thigh, fingers stretched a little to its inner side, and saw that it was Bilbo. The shades of dark and light that flickered through Thorin’s eyes, like spots of sunlight and cloud shadow over the surface of a lake, were almost unbearable to Bilbo, and he felt again that he was about to faint.

Oin saved him from that embarrassment. “I asked Bilbo to give you your massage from now on,” he said, addressing Thorin, who was still staring intensely at the hobbit. “I hope you won’t mind.”

Thorin finally took his eyes off Bilbo to look briefly at Oin. “No, not at all,” he said, his voice clearer than it usually was upon waking up.

Then he looked back to Bilbo, still seemingly unable to get over his surprise.

“Well, do go on, Bilbo,” said Oin.

Bilbo glanced again at Thorin and saw that he was trying hard to restrain himself from showing his feelings, not because someone else was there, but because he knew that it pushed Bilbo farther than he was willing to go at that moment. He always struggled not to say the wrong thing, or look the wrong way at Bilbo, even when they were alone, and it was all the more obvious now. Not that there was any wrong way to speak to Bilbo or to look at him. It was only the hobbit’s reluctance that made Thorin feel as if there was.

The sight of it shamed Bilbo into wanting to make an effort of his own and do what he had been asked to do without letting his anxiety show so much. After all, this was first and foremost about helping Thorin feel better, and whatever other concerns he had, they had to come second.

He resumed the massage of Thorin’s thigh, slowly falling back into that sensation of charmed grace that had washed over him before. At times he perceived him tense slightly under his touch. If he had looked at Thorin in those moments, he was sure that it would not have been pain that he would have seen in his eyes. And he had to admit, in that state of temporary shedding of his fears, that he also drew pleasure out of feeling Thorin’s body rouse to life under his fingers.

“You will need to do the underside as well, and the calf,” said Oin, coming closer. “If you would lift your knee, Thorin.” He wedged a palm under Thorin’s knee and pulled it up slowly.

That was when Bilbo risked a glance at Thorin and saw what he expected to see: a slow-burning, blue fire. Thorin had objected before to Bilbo taking care of him and seeing his wounds, but he was not objecting now. Bilbo surprised himself by sustaining Thorin’s gaze while he rubbed the warm underside of his thigh. He saw his lips part softly as his palm traced its wide muscle for a last time before moving on to the lower part of his leg. Somewhere deep down, Bilbo regretted it as well.

Bilbo continued his task and massaged Thorin’s calf under Oin’s approving eyes. It was unexpected to him that he should prove to be so skilful at that particular activity with not a lot of prior experience, but he was grateful for it, as it was one less thing to complicate matters and to feel awkward about.

As his hands ventured down to Thorin’s ankle, he noted, not without amusement, that the one part of his body that had more hair than Thorin’s were his feet.

His thoughts were interrupted by Oin taking his leave. “If there is nothing else you need, Thorin,” he said, “I believe I shall leave you to it.”

“No,” answered Thorin. “Thank you, Oin.”

“Will you be all right, Bilbo?” he asked then, addressing the hobbit.

Bilbo nodded, feeling relieved and newly anxious at the same time. He watched Oin walk out of the room, then wiped the remaining oil off his hands with a small towel and drew the cover back over Thorin’s left leg. Then he moved to the other side of the bed, taking the bottle of oil with him. As he placed it on the night table at Thorin’s side, he couldn’t help catching the dwarf’s gaze again. It was less fiery now, but he could still see desire swimming clearly in it, the kind of desire that he had seen before when Thorin had spoken passionately about the things he wanted most: revenge, Erebor, the Arkenstone. Only now it was directed at Bilbo and it chilled his bones even if his hands felt very warm, blazing even, from having stroked Thorin’s skin for so long.

He could not keep looking and he knew that the moment he broke eye contact and began preoccupying himself with preparing to continue his massage, Thorin had also looked away. He could feel the weight of his disappointment hanging low in the air above them both. As much as he would have wanted not to disappoint Thorin, as much as he would have wanted to let himself feel whatever he definitely perceived stirring inside him, he simply could not.

He uncovered Thorin’s right leg slowly and his heart tugged a little at the sight of the bandage that wrapped around the thigh and at the yellow and purple trails that peeked out from under it above the knee.

“Tell me if it hurts, all right?” he said, looking back to Thorin.

Thorin turned his head as if Bilbo had just reached out a saving hand to him. He nodded slowly.

Bilbo smiled to him and lowered a hand to Thorin’s knee tentatively at first, then pressed a little harder until Thorin winced. “Sorry,” he said, and continued with moderate pressure.

What followed was more of a mixture between pleasure and pain. Bilbo worked with care around the wound on Thorin’s right thigh, but even so he kept perceiving little swirls of stirring muscle, and knew that this time it wasn’t pleasure. Every little one of them echoed achingly in Bilbo’s heart, and he treasured their slow fading into a kind of sweet peace that seemed to seep into Thorin’s body as Bilbo’s gently stroking hands descended below his knee.

When Bilbo finished, he tucked the cover back over Thorin’s leg and looked at him with a smile that he hoped was kind above all else. Thorin glanced up at him innocently, and Bilbo felt overwhelmingly silly that he was afraid of someone who could not do more than lie there and accept whatever came. He also felt the need to put some order in his thoughts.

“Do you mind if I leave you alone for a while?” he asked.

Thorin shook his head, looking like he was about to break anyway without anyone touching him. Bilbo wished very badly that he could have given in to a sudden need to comfort Thorin with a kiss to his forehead, and his heart bent around that wish to the point of breaking.

“Do you want me to tell Balin to bring you something to eat?” he offered instead.

To his relief, Thorin nodded this time.

Bilbo walked out finally and spent a few seconds with his back pressed against the door of the bedroom, letting everything that he was feeling come to a boil inside him. He could not have done that in Thorin’s presence. He needed some time on his own. He needed light, and air.

He set off, first to find Balin so that he fulfilled his promise to Thorin, and then he was on his way towards the Gate of Erebor and towards the world outside.

As he stepped out into the icy-bright sunlight, he regretted instantly that he had again forgotten to collect his borrowed felt coat, but he realised just as quickly that the cold air was doing him good. He breathed in deeply and closed his eyes, filling his lungs with the scent of fresh snow and his ears with the hum of voices all around him – dwarves still working on repairs to the entrance and a few men carrying tools and firewood to Dale.

When he opened his eyes again, his mind was clearer than it had been in a long while, and he thought to himself that this was a time of agony for him, too, and not only for Thorin, just an agony of a different kind. He only wished that Thorin had not been so aware of it himself. He wished he could have pretended better that he was not struggling with something that should have perhaps come naturally. He didn’t know what he was afraid of, and he was growing tired of not knowing himself anymore, of feeling lonelier now after having seen the world and gained so many friends than he had ever felt sitting alone outside Bag End and looking over the small horizon of Hobbiton. He missed Bag End more than he had ever thought he could miss it. A ruthless pain surged from the pit of his stomach and invaded his chest. He was able to catch a scream in his throat, but he could not hold the tears from welling up in his eyes.

A flurry of freezing wind rushed past him and ruffled his hair. He didn’t budge, not even to gather the collar of his jacket closer around his neck and give himself the illusion that it protected him from the cold. There was nothing colder than how he felt inside at that moment, and when he turned around and headed back into the mountain, it was not to get out of the wind.

He let his steps guide him, having no precise destination in mind, and they took him, eventually, to the great throne room of Erebor, which made him feel tinier than he really was. He stopped for a bit to look around and wonder at the Dwarves’ inclination to build big even if they were not much taller than he was. The room was chilly and drafty, but resplendent in bright light from the high sun outside. He could see some activity around the throne and his aroused curiosity pushed him further along the stone bridge leading to it. As he approached, he recognized the two dwarves working there: Dwalin and Bofur.

“Ah, hello, Bilbo,” said Bofur, straightening his back and smiling sweetly.

“Hello,” answered Bilbo, always glad to see Bofur. He simply bowed his forehead a little to Dwalin, who had not done more himself to greet the hobbit. “What are you doing?”

“Repairing the throne,” said Bofur, looking rather satisfied with himself as he planted his hands in his hips. “Dwalin here wants to have it back together the way it was by the time Thorin is well enough to get out of bed.”

Bilbo glanced to Dwalin, who glanced back furtively, as he lifted a big stone from the ground, spread a grey paste on one side of it and set it into the back of the throne.

“Oh, I see,” said Bilbo. He looked up at the half-broken throne and at the empty space where the Arkenstone had once resided. He noticed that the mount of the stone had been remade. “You mean to put it back,” he said, his eyes following the column of rock that rose from the back of the throne and grew into a part of the mountain itself, “the Arkenstone.”

“Aye,” answered Dwalin, “we will put it back where it belongs.”

Bilbo swallowed a bit painfully and gazed back to Dwalin. He expected to see resentment on his face, but all he saw was striking, bone-deep melancholy.

“I promised Thorin that I would do this for him when the time came,” he said, stopping his work and looking up at the throne himself.

“I’m glad that time has come after all,” said Bilbo, after pausing to think of the years beyond his imagination that probably lay between now and the moment when Dwalin had made that promise.

“So am I,” answered Dwalin, setting his gaze back on the hobbit, warmer than Bilbo had seen it in a long time.

Dwalin looked like he wanted to say more, but he could not say it in front of Bofur. He didn’t really have to. The look in his eyes gave Bilbo a hint of what his mouth could not communicate. It seemed that Dwalin had resolved to concentrate on his role as guardian of Thorin’s rights as king rather than on how he felt about whatever was going on between Thorin and Bilbo that he did not quite understand. There was nothing more straightforwardly loyal than to remake his broken throne, especially after watching Thorin fall into delusion and forget what it truly was to be a king in that very spot. Bilbo remembered better than he wanted watching stupefied as Thorin made threats to those who had a mind to withhold the Arkenstone from him and not recognizing him. He also remembered melting with guilt at being the only one whose loyalty Thorin did not doubt. All of that was behind them now, but it could not be easily put behind. It was something that they had all been a part of and something that bound them forever, no matter what they did and where they went.

Bilbo bowed his head again to Dwalin and Bofur, wished them good luck with their noble endeavour, and then walked back, more confidently, to Thorin’s bedroom.

The chamber was silent and bathed in the same mellow light that filled the throne room. Bilbo advanced quietly towards the bed, where Thorin slept turned on his right side. He felt a little silly again about the things that worried him in those days, but he knew that no matter how silly it appeared to him sometimes, when other things seemed bigger and more important, the worry would not go anywhere unless he faced it.

He settled down at the side of the bed. It occurred to him that Thorin was not in a very different place than he was. His wounds did not hurt less because he was a king.

Musing so, Bilbo noticed from the corner of his eye that, even though Thorin was well bundled in his blanket, his bent knee stuck out from underneath. He reached to pull the blanket over it, but before that he kissed it, gently and without regrets. Then, he rested his arms against the side of the bed, and his head on top of them, wishing that he could have told Thorin that Dwalin was remaking his throne. They were all still part of something even if the quest was over, and there was much still for him to do in that kingdom to the East.


	10. Pillow Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter for the new year! Hope you like it!

After his massage, Thorin slept till late in the afternoon, giving Bilbo time to visit Fili and Kili and forget the island of awkwardness in the middle of his day, or at least remember it with less stinging clarity. Of course, he mentioned none of it to Fili and Kili, and he was grateful that they did not inquire further than into Thorin’s general state of health and level of peevishness.

“You’re looking well, Bilbo,” Fili had said the moment that the hobbit had walked into their room.

Bilbo actually felt a little crumpled, but he feigned surprise. “Why wouldn’t I look well?” he said as he sat down on a chair between their beds.

“I imagine spending most of your time with bedridden Thorin can be a little... nerve-wrecking,” muttered Fili under his breath, then looked at his brother, who returned a knowing grin.

“I remember he once had to drag us out of an icy lake in the Blue Mountains,” chirped Kili without a trace of guilt over his childhood transgressions, “and he caught a little cold. Mother had to threaten with strapping him down to keep him in bed for two days.”

Bilbo smiled and ignored the first impulse to ask what they were doing on an icy lake in the first place. “What about you two?” he asked instead.

“She didn’t have to threaten us. We were sick as dogs for an entire week. Which was for the better, eventually, as we didn’t have to deal too much with Thorin. He was sick as a dog, too, and furious about it.”

Bilbo couldn’t restrain a hearty laugh. “He seems to be taking it surprisingly well this time,” he said.

“Lucky you,” replied Fili with a little wink.

Their conversation had then turned to other topics, making Bilbo feel even more disconnected from his earlier self, whose hand and soul had quivered over what should have been the simple task of giving Thorin a therapeutic massage. But nothing was simple anymore between himself and the Dwarf King.

Bilbo now lay again in bed behind him, looking at the dwarf’s wide back, and at his dark hair scattered over his pillow, as he slept on his right side. He remembered all the turmoil that he had gone through that day as if it had happened to someone else. He wanted it to have happened to someone else. There was no real reason for it to have happened to him. He had been together with Thorin on that quest that had bonded them for life, as Gandalf had said. They were very far from strangers to each other now. Why should he have felt uncomfortable about giving Thorin a massage that was meant to help his not quite mint condition? Why couldn’t he feel as eager about that as he had felt about helping Thorin soothe the pain in his heart by reclaiming his kingdom?

He was suddenly pulled from his thoughts by the delicate sound of Thorin starting to wake up and by the slight movement of his shoulder, which elicited almost at once a groan of protest. In spite of the obvious discomfort that it caused him, Thorin tried to turn.

“Thorin, let me help you,” said Bilbo, jumping on an elbow and leaning over his side.

Thorin looked at him a little startled. “I’m too heavy,” he said, still trying to move on his own and jolting in pain sooner than it could actually make a difference.

“Oh, I’ve put some muscle on me since I joined your Company. I think I can handle it,” said Bilbo with a little smirk. “Come on,” he insisted, sitting up on his knees, placing a hand on Thorin’s chest and holding his injured left arm by the elbow with the other. He did not feel awkward touching him now. He felt wonderfully warm about it, in fact. Thorin himself felt wonderfully warm to touch. Sleep did that.

To Thorin’s obvious surprise, Bilbo’s intervention did help him turn without a lot of trouble. He smiled to him once he was settled again comfortably on his back.

“There,” Bilbo smiled back and proceeded to arrange the blanket around him.

“Thank you,” whispered Thorin.

“Don’t mention it,” said Bilbo, then sat back to draw his breath a little.

Thorin looked like he had also forgotten what had happened between them earlier in the day. It was a relief to see that he was unaffected and that everything was all right. Bilbo felt his body glow slightly with the comfort of that thought.

“Bilbo,” said Thorin, growing more serious, “I can ask Oin to continue giving me my massage if it makes you uncomfortable.”

Bilbo lost the lustre of his smile. It seemed that Thorin had not forgotten at all. “No, Thorin,” he said, “I was just being silly. It doesn’t make me uncomfortable.”

“Silly?” repeated Thorin. “No, I do not think you were being silly. I think you were afraid. I made you afraid. I am sorry, but I was taken by surprise.”

Bilbo felt like something heavy was crushing him. “No, Thorin, don’t apologize,” he said, although he really did not want to talk about it. “I was taken by surprise myself. I just... I don’t want to cause you even more pain.”

Thorin smiled again. “You could never do that.”

The deeply warm tone of his voice dispelled the returning shadow from Bilbo’s mind. He felt relieved again, and even a little flattered. He also remembered his earlier visit with the ever-cheerful Fili and Kili and the little glimpse into Thorin’s past experience with being confined to his bed. “Can I say something?”

“Anything.”

“I honestly expected you to be a more difficult patient.”

Thorin burst into actual laughter that caused him to wince in pain. “It helps to have distractions,” he said.

Bilbo lowered his gaze, trying to hide the flowering of too much red in his cheeks.

“I suppose I am tired of fighting,” said Thorin, more seriously.

Bilbo looked up at him again. He certainly understood how Thorin could have got tired of fighting, but he couldn’t help a tinge of sweet melancholy at the thought that, for him, the fight was not over at all. It was something that he was going to have to get used to. “Well, would you like some supper?” he asked.

Thorin pondered his answer for a while. “I am not that hungry,” he refused, eventually.

“Me neither,” said Bilbo. “I suppose I’ll just change for bed then.”

Thorin approved with a brimming of warmth in his eyes that would have made Bilbo blush again if he had stayed longer in his presence. Instead, he excused himself and went to the bathroom to wash up and change into the night clothes that he had borrowed from the tall chest of drawers residing in the corner of Thorin’s bedroom. He still didn’t know how to feel about sleeping with Thorin in his bed. There was much more going on than simply keeping him company. He would have had to be blind and stupid not to see that, and he had never been either, much less now after all he had experienced. It unnerved him constantly. There was a permanent flutter in his heart, barely perceptible but definitely there, like a tired butterfly was batting its wings to get out of it. On the other hand, he really could not conceive of leaving Thorin alone for the night and sleeping elsewhere. There was also something infinitely comforting and safe about knowing that he was with him, and there was even something pleasurable about that little butterfly in his heart that didn’t truly want to get out. It made him feel twice as much alive.

He returned to the bedroom and found Thorin still awake. He lay down at his side and made himself comfortable. They looked at each other for a while, and Bilbo mused that he usually felt awkward staring at someone without saying anything. He did not feel awkward staring wordlessly at Thorin and having Thorin stare wordlessly back at him. He felt that they were speaking to each other anyway.

“You know,” he broke their secret communion, “when you first walked inside my house, I never thought that we would end up in bed together.”

Thorin laughed again and it didn’t seem to hurt any less than before. “It seems that you can cause me more pain after all,” he said, with a lingering smile.

“I’m sorry,” said Bilbo, “I’ll try not to make you laugh anymore, until you’re better.”

“I think a laugh is worth a little pain,” said Thorin.

“And you’ve had a great deal of that already,” Bilbo continued his thought.

Thorin nodded, and Bilbo couldn’t help feeling a twinge of melancholy again. Still, it was a welcome change to hear Thorin talk that way, and it was certainly a welcome change to hear him laugh.

“So this is your old room from when you lived here,” Bilbo said and Thorin nodded again. It was hard for Bilbo not to think of the many years that had passed since Thorin had been in that room last. He also could not help thinking of how it made Thorin feel to be there again after all those years. “Were you ever injured then?” he asked instead.

“No, nothing serious. Just bumps and scratches I might have gotten in combat training. I was very young.”

“How old were you when the dragon came?”

“I was around Fili’s age.”

Bilbo didn’t really know how old Fili was, but he seemed too young still to have his home taken away from him in a burst of flame, with all the comforts it contained.

“I cannot begin to imagine what it was like for you,” said Bilbo.

“It was not easy. Things were expected of me.”

“Things you weren’t ready for?”

“Not entirely,” said Thorin. “We had lost everything, and I do not mean only possessions. It was long before we found shelter. Many more died on the way.”

“You settled in Dunland eventually,” said Bilbo, remembering the bits and pieces of the story that he had heard along the way. “You must have passed near Mirkwood. Did Thranduil not help?”

Thorin mustered a broiling glare. “He wanted nothing to do with us. We had to move on.”

“I see,” said Bilbo, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Those of us who were able took work as we could. There is always need of a good blacksmith in the world of Men.”

Bilbo detected a strong note of bitterness in Thorin’s voice, and it did not surprise him. He could hardly imagine how Thorin had gone from being a prince in the most powerful kingdom of Middle Earth to having to earn his living by working as a blacksmith, but it did not sound as if he had had a choice. “I can see where your love of the Elves is coming from,” concluded Bilbo.

Thorin smirked. “Of course, you feel differently.”

“You mean, I actually love them?”

Thorin raised his eyebrows a little as if he had undeniable proof of Bilbo’s love of the Elves. “Gandalf said you were going off into the woods to hear their songs when you were young.”

Bilbo approved with a squint. “When did Gandalf tell you that?”

“When he suggested that you would make a proper burglar for our quest.”

“Right,” said Bilbo, beginning to worry slightly. He was not aware of lengthy conversations between Gandalf and Thorin that concerned him, but, of course, there had to be some prior recommendations by Gandalf in order to convince Thorin to consider taking the hobbit on his quest in the first place. “What else did he say about me?”

“That you were light on your feet, and that you had courage most of your kin had forgotten. And most importantly, that you did not smell of Dwarf.”

Bilbo chuckled. “I think I do now.”

“Quite possibly,” said Thorin, with a rare spark of whimsy in his eye. Then, he went back to being almost solemnly serious. “There is something else that he said.”

“Oh?”

“That, unlike other Hobbits, you had not married because you wished to remain unattached.” Bilbo lost his smile altogether. “As if you wanted to make yourself available for an adventure.”

Bilbo stared at Thorin for a while, feeling suddenly naked and even transparent. “I, I suppose that’s true now that I think about it.”

“I am glad you did not marry,” teased Thorin.

“I certainly got an adventure out of it,” said Bilbo. Thorin laughed again very quietly, and this time without a lot of strain. “Why did you… remain unattached?” Bilbo risked the question.

“I am very much attached,” said Thorin, not very bothered by it, “to my people.”

Bilbo weighed that answer for a second. Then he remembered something he’d wanted to tell Thorin all along. “I meant to tell you, Dwalin is hard at work remaking the king’s throne, your throne.”

Thorin smiled widely and beautifully. “Is he? He has not said a word to me about it.”

“Perhaps he wanted it to be a surprise. Hmm, in fact, he said he had promised to you he would do it, when the time came.”

“Indeed,” Thorin seemed to remember and his eyes twinkled with things unsaid. “It was after the battle for Moria.” Thorin looked back to Bilbo and something flashed painful in his eyes, like the flicker of a memory, then it turned into a wondrous sort of recognition, as if he was seeing Bilbo again after being parted from him for many years.

Bilbo did not really know what to make of it, but he remembered Balin’s account of that battle and of how Thorin had earned the loyalty of his kin by facing Azog all alone and showing him that there was yet strength in the armoured arms of the Dwarves. It occurred to him now, as he looked upon a weak and languid Thorin, that all of that strength came with a price and that there must have been a great deal of heartache that Thorin was concealing under his ever brave front.

“That was when you lost your grandfather, wasn’t it?” asked Bilbo, more aware than ever that King Thror had been to Thorin more than his king. He had been his grandfather, and Thorin had had to watch him die by Azog’s filthy hand.

There was another flash of pain in Thorin’s gaze, and it looked fresh even if it came from a time long past. “It was,” he said, and let his gaze trail down to Bilbo’s throat. He stared, unfocused, then spoke again in a low tone. “We had to burn them.”

“Excuse me?” said Bilbo, a little startled.

“The bodies,” said Thorin, “our dead. We had to burn them. That is not out way. There is no grave for my grandfather other than the open field before the East-Gate of Moria. Or for my brother, or for…” The flow of Thorin’s memories faltered and he looked back to Bilbo with a small flutter of his eyelids, as if he had just shaken himself back into the present.

“For?” asked Bilbo.

“Many others we cared for,” said Thorin eventually.

Bilbo had the unmistakable feeling that Thorin had meant to mention someone specific that he had cared for, but had stopped when he had realised that he was going to. He chose not to push the matter. “I am sorry, Thorin,” he said instead, “but I think that they would all be very proud of you.”

Thorin nodded but his gaze remained deep and translucent, as if he was looking at Bilbo from across the ages. Then, he slowly started to fade as his eyelids lost their willingness to stay lifted.

“Sleep well,” added Bilbo, his own voice fading.

He did not fall asleep right away, however. He remained wide-eyed as Thorin closed his eyes, simmering in the afterglow of sadness that their conversation had eventually left in him. He knew that he had only heard a small part of the story of Thorin’s life up to that point, and that the darkest verses of it remained unheard by many. His natural curiosity yielded to a very sincere wish not to stir old wounds. Eventually, Bilbo felt sleep taking over him, too, and he gave in to it.

Something pulled him out again. A movement. And a sound. He opened his eyes and saw that Thorin was fighting something in his sleep, which still had him close within its grip. His face was bathed in sweat and so were his neck, arms and chest. He had pushed his part of the blanket down to his waist as he battled whatever evil had come to haunt him in the night. His head moved abruptly to his right, and Bilbo could see the muscles and veins of his neck straining under his wet skin and making the beads of sweat pop up like little transparent molehills. His eyebrows angered, and a strange but clearly formed word escaped his mouth in an aching exhale. It sounded like “knee wrath”, but the knee was bent and broken in half. It did not make any sense to Bilbo, so he assumed it was a Dwarvish word, or perhaps a name, but certainly not a word of the Common Speech.

Bilbo perked himself up on an elbow and touched the side of Thorin’s forehead as gently as he could, meaning to save him from his obviously bad dream. He proved more than eager to be saved from it. Thorin’s head jerked back and his eyes opened widely, staring at first at the ceiling of his bedroom as if he had just emerged above water after being held down, desperately seeking air and life.

“Thorin?” called Bilbo, not very loud, but loud enough to ensure that his voice would reach through the veil of horror that Thorin still seemed to linger under. “Thorin, look at me,” he repeated, brushing his fingers against the skin of the dwarf’s forehead to get his attention.

Finally, Thorin unpinned his eyes from the ceiling and moved them slowly to Bilbo, as if he almost didn’t expect him to be real. His eyes were like overwrought coals, clear and hot, but exhausted, and they stood out strangely on his sweat-soaked face.

Bilbo smiled to him. “You’re all right now. It was just a dream.”

Thorin gazed at him with growing sadness and his eyebrows sagged under the pull of the watery sheen that was beginning to gather in his eyes. Bilbo understood that it had not been just a dream at all. It had been a memory. Thorin brought his right hand to the hobbit’s arm and up his shoulder and tugged a little at his shirt. Thin threads of tears began to shine down the sides of his face. Bilbo could not resist him now. He bent over him, letting his face rest gently against Thorin’s forehead and didn’t retreat when Thorin very obviously buried his face in his neck and cried. His hand was clutching Bilbo’s shirt and his fingers kept kneading it with more strength than Bilbo had thought they would have had left in them. He raised his own hand to Thorin’s head and let his fingers dig into his drenched hair, imparting what he hoped was a comforting caress.

“Whatever you dreamed of, Thorin, it’s in the past now. It can’t hurt you anymore,” said Bilbo as Thorin began to calm down. He felt him smile against his neck. That was when he knew that he could let him go.

He restored the normal distance between them and was able to determine that Thorin looked like he had finally come out of his nightmare and was ready to recognize that he was awake in a better place. He looked more dishevelled than Bilbo had ever seen him through the entire quest, even more so than when he had lain wounded on the battlefield, armour rent and body bleeding. His heart was wide open now, unfolding its layers upon layers of sorrow before Bilbo like a flower blooming in blood. It did not speak in specifics and Bilbo did not really need to know exactly what Thorin had dreamed about. It was enough that his heart did speak to him and that Thorin, the ruler of the realm that he was in, was letting him see so deep inside him. It was something that could not be taken lightly.

Bilbo smiled again, wanting to at least try and break the low-hanging spell of their embrace. He wiped the tears off one side of Thorin’s face with the back of his hand. “We should clean you up a bit,” he said, looking Thorin all over, “it won’t do for you to go back to sleep all soaked like this. Catching a cold is the last thing you need.” Thorin smiled a little, seeming to agree. “Then I’ll make you some very special tea,” teased Bilbo, remembering the few times that he had gone to Oin for relief of his anxiety and had walked away with a wonderful tea that had helped him sleep.

Thorin did not seem to have much energy left to either protest or welcome the promise of tea. Bilbo climbed out of bed and went to get some warm water and a clean cloth. He returned shortly and set his wash things on the night table at Thorin’s side, then sat down on the side of his bed and rinsed the washcloth in the warm, lavender-scented water. He had added a bit of lavender oil in it for a touch of extra comfort. There had been many times during the quest in which he had thought that he would never have the fortune of being near scented bath water again. He had certainly not expected to be near it and Thorin at the same time. But, just as he had adjusted to every unexpected thing that had crossed his path during the quest, it seemed that he simply had to continue adjusting.

Thorin looked at him with a kind of tired gratitude as he washed his face of sweat and tears. There was no new flame of desire flaring out at Bilbo as he continued washing his neck and his chest. It made it easier for the hobbit to keep feeling comfortable with their closeness instead of growing anxious. It actually made Bilbo feel happy that he could do that for Thorin. It was a quiet happiness that ran deep to a place in his heart that had not really felt happy since he had left home. Whenever he glanced at Thorin, he could see that he felt about the same. It deepened Bilbo’s rare feeling of content, but when he had drunk from it long enough, his curiosity came back to bite at his newfound inner peace.

“You dreamed about that awful battle, didn’t you?” he asked Thorin.

Thorin nodded slowly, without showing any signs that the reminder of his fresh nightmare was particularly upsetting.

“Because we talked about it before you fell asleep,” continued Bilbo. “I’m sorry I reminded you of it.”

“It is not something I ever truly forget,” said Thorin.

Bilbo smiled in return and applied the newly rinsed washcloth to Thorin’s shoulder. “You said something while you were dreaming,” he pressed on, “I think it was Dwarvish. It doesn’t make any sense in Westron.”

“What did I say?” asked Thorin a little apprehensively, but Bilbo did not think it was more than a natural reaction to an unpleasant memory.

“Well, bear in mind, I didn’t understand what you were saying, so this might sound a little silly,” said Bilbo, looking at Thorin as he rinsed the washcloth. “It sounded like... ‘knee wrath’. Does that-” Bilbo stopped as he noticed a sudden darkening of Thorin’s demeanour.

“Nyrath,” whispered Thorin, his gaze unfocused and sounding like, whatever he had dreamed, he was now reliving it as he pronounced that word.

“Yes, that,” said Bilbo. “What does it mean?”

Thorin faced him again, the coals in his eyes gone black. The warm glow in Bilbo’s heart also diminished. “It is a name,” said Thorin, his voice deep and carrying a note of ageless regret.

“Of someone who died in that battle?” asked Bilbo.

“Indeed,” replied Thorin, and something began gleaming again in his darkened eyes, “someone I cared for very much.”

Bilbo’s first natural reaction was to feel compassion for Thorin’s loss, but then he remembered the way he had latched onto him as he had awoken from his dream, and the way he had hesitated to name another person whose body had been burned after the battle for Moria besides his grandfather and brother, and he also remembered himself asking Balin if Thorin had expressed interest in another male before. It looked as if he had just got his answer. Nyrath could only be a male Dwarf, probably a skilled warrior, if he had been in that battle. “Oh,” he said, full understanding of Thorin’s heart and of his own place in it hitting him all at once with nauseating force. It seemed that simple comfort and quiet happiness kept eluding him. They kept turning against him. “I am sorry, Thorin, I had no idea.”

“It was a long time ago,” said Thorin.

“Not long enough, it seems,” replied Bilbo before he could stop himself.

“It never is.”

Bilbo said nothing more for a while, his mind brewing with new questions that he did not have to ask, since the answers presented themselves to him one by one. The course of Thorin’s life since that fateful battle flashed before his eyes. Thorin had obviously loved Nyrath very much, whoever he had been. From the end of that battle, he had put aside that love to become fully attached to his people and had never looked back. Until perhaps the moment his path had crossed with the fourteenth member of the Company he had gathered to take back his lost kingdom, the hobbit that Gandalf had recommended as a burglar. “When, when did all this happen exactly?” he asked, to keep himself from toppling over.

“About 140 years ago,” answered Thorin, calmly.

Bilbo winced inside. It was more than twice his lifetime. “That is long,” he said, under his breath and looking down at his hands, which had stopped dead the moment he had seen the shadow of Nyrath’s memory cloud Thorin’s eyes. His hands were now resting on his knees, still holding the washcloth. He could feel the cold wetness of it seeping through the fabric of his trousers. He had not noticed that before. “Well, we should finish here before the water gets cold,” he said, glancing back to Thorin briefly before rinsing the washcloth anew in the still warm scented water. He avoided Thorin’s gaze as he wrung out the cloth, not really knowing how to feel about all that had been revealed to him in only a few minutes and in less words. He could feel it on him, however, and he knew that he had to face him. “I really am sorry, Thorin, about everything,” he said.

Thorin’s expression did not warrant any sort of apology on Bilbo’s part. He looked at peace with his past, and not at all like he blamed the hobbit for reminding him of any of it. “Do not be,” said Thorin, with a warm smile, and taking gentle hold of Bilbo’s forearm.

The slow caress of his fingers soothed the sting of regret in Bilbo’s heart, a regret that was truly not his to have. He had no part in Thorin’s past hurts. On the contrary, he had the power to comfort him in the here and now. He took Thorin’s hand and resumed his bedside bath by applying the warm washcloth to it.

Thorin said nothing more after that. He lay quietly until his eyes started closing again and he soon fell asleep before Bilbo could finish his bath and bring him the cup of tea he had promised. It was probably all for the better, and Bilbo hoped that he would be able to sleep undisturbed this time.

One image lingered in the hobbit’s mind as he continued washing Thorin’s body slowly enough not to wake him: the image of an ancient creature trapped inside a chunk of amber, perfect and beautiful in its immovable state as it had been in life. 140 years was long enough for Bilbo to call ancient. And the creature inside the amber was Nyrath, whatever Thorin remembered of him, and it seemed that he remembered everything. The reflection of him was still clear in Thorin’s eyes and it made Bilbo’s own heart stand still at the idea that someone’s memory could survive that unspoiled for that long. It would have probably continued to survive for as long as Thorin would live and perhaps beyond. It saddened him to know that Thorin had loved someone that much and lost him.

He finally put the washcloth aside, and tucked the cover closely around Thorin again. Then he sat back awhile, thinking that he was probably more important to Thorin than he had even begun to realise. For the first time in 140 years perhaps, Thorin was feeling something other than the duty to avenge the fate of his ancestors and to care for his people, and he was feeling it for him. He could not help wondering what expectations and secret wishes lay behind Thorin’s veil of serenity, what old hopes had been rekindled in his heart. He felt the weight of them hanging on his shoulders, although they were unknown to him.

His own expectations were unknown to him and he had no old hopes that he could remember. Deep down he’d always known what Gandalf had expressed so clearly to Thorin – that he had never married because he wanted to be free to go off on an adventure if and when it presented itself. He was never going to be a Hobbit like the others, contenting himself with remaining within the safe confines of the Shire and never dreaming of seeing faraway mountains and waterfalls and wearing a sword. That much he had always known. He had never dreamed, however, that he would get as far as he had got and that, at the end of the adventure, he would still have himself to face, and an undiscovered part of him which he had never thought really mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1  
> The idea of Bilbo remaining 'unattached' in order to be free for an adventure is canon. Following is a quote from Gandalf in the "Quest of Erebor" chapter of "Unfinished Tales":
> 
> "I learned that he had never married. I thought that odd though I guessed why it was; and the reason that I guessed was not that most of the Hobbits gave me: that he had early been left very well off and his own master. No, I guessed that he wanted to remain 'unattached' for some reason deep down which he did not understand himself - or would not acknowledge, for it alarmed him. He wanted, all the same, to be free to go when the chance came, or he had made up his courage. I remembered how he used to pester me with questions when he was a youngster about the Hobbits that had occasionally 'gone off,' as they said in the Shire. There were at least two of his uncles on the Took side that had done so."
> 
> Note 2  
> If you'd like some backstory for Thorin and Nyrath, you can find some in my story "My Heart Burns" (not yet finished, sorry!): http://archiveofourown.org/works/3143549/chapters/6818360


	11. Where The Heart Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This new chapter was a bit of a rush, so I hope you forgive the glitches, if there are any. More than that, I hope you enjoy it :)  
> Comments and constructive criticism are welcome as always! Thank you!

Bilbo had fallen asleep in Thorin’s armchair again. He had sat down to think about everything that he had learned about Thorin and about himself the previous night and had never got up. Now, as he stirred awake, all shades of pain woke in his body with him, and the heaviness in his head made him feel like he had not really been sleeping at all. He opened his eyes slowly, without focusing on anything, and through the mist of half-wakefulness, he could remember formless images of darkening paths and gathering shadows. It had probably been a dream, and not a particularly pleasant one. He sat up a little and rubbed his eyes.

He glanced at Thorin, who seemed to have fared better in that latter half of the night. He had certainly earned at least half of a good night’s rest. Bilbo could still not dispel the image of the still sleeping Thorin tormented by his nightmare, of his hollowed stare as the hobbit had called to him to bring him back. He could not forget how Thorin had clung to him desperately for comfort, so unlike himself as he had known him, revealing to Bilbo what was probably the best kept secret of his heart.

Bilbo suspected that not many others knew the whole truth about Nyrath, although he had been told that Dwarves did not mind such a relationship much. But Thorin was not any Dwarf. His status might have very well forced that part of him into secrecy. Perhaps revealing it to someone now, after 140 years, had brought him the peace of mind that he had missed all along. Bilbo shivered a little at his own thought. Thorin had not simply revealed that information to someone just to unburden himself. He had revealed it to the person in whom, perhaps, his hidden hopes lay renewed. Of course, Bilbo himself had unknowingly pushed him to remember, but Thorin could have still not told him anything. It was a gesture of trust that intimidated Bilbo more than it made him glad, for he was not at all sure that he would be able to honour it as Thorin wanted.

He knew there was no point in letting his fears fester, however. He got up and went to wash up. By the time he came back, Thorin was awake. He looked well-rested enough but kept shifting on his back as if to soothe the deaf pain that immobility had probably put there.

“Do you want me to pull up your pillow a bit?” asked Bilbo.

Thorin nodded, and Bilbo helped him raise his head with one hand and worked on his pillow with the other. He could see Thorin looking up at him all that time. He looked back, smiling.

“There,” said Bilbo as he laid Thorin’s head back on the plumped pillow and sat down on the side of the bed.

He expected Thorin to lie back peacefully, but the dwarf tried to sit further up by pushing himself up on his hands and managing to cause himself pain more than anything. He obviously didn’t have a lot of his strength working for him and he could only truly rely on his right arm for support. His left arm could be counted on to give him grief and not much else at that time.

“Thorin, let me help,” jumped Bilbo.

“No, I can do it,” refused Thorin, his face scrunched up in pain.

Bilbo sat back and watched as Thorin finally managed to hoist himself further up, sweating again from the effort.

“I see you’re becoming a difficult patient,” teased Bilbo with an arched eyebrow.

Thorin returned a well-executed glare, which Bilbo could only reward with a smile, aware that it all meant one thing: that Thorin was getting better. He could understand how anyone, but especially someone as strong as Thorin, could become frustrated with not even being able to get up from his bed for over two weeks. He wasn’t really being difficult. He was just being true to his nature.

“You know,” added Bilbo, “Balin says that the less strain you put on yourself, the sooner you’ll get out of this bed. That’s why I’m here. That’s why we’re all here.”

Thorin mellowed a bit as he regained his breath. “I know,” he grumbled, “it’s just that I’m-”

“I know,” said Bilbo, “it won’t be that long now.” He took his left hand into his carefully. It was still shivering with either pain or exhaustion, or perhaps both.

Thorin seemed to accept Bilbo’s touch as his hand settled slowly into the hobbit’s. “Do you have bad dreams?” he asked, seemingly out of nowhere, as he let his head rest fully on his pillow.

“Sometimes,” replied Bilbo.

“Did you have bad dreams before?”

“Before the quest? Not the kind I have now.” He saw Thorin’s whole face drape in regret. “No, don’t apologize,” said Bilbo, “don’t apologize for showing me the world as it is. Besides, I’ve always wanted to see for myself, remember?”

Thorin smiled in return, still regretful. “I wish you did not have to face so much peril, not on my account.”

“Oh, Thorin, do you really mean that?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I ran after you. You didn’t hold an axe over my head, as Dwalin so eloquently put it a while ago.”

Thorin looked a little surprised, but chose to ignore the reference to a conversation between Bilbo and Dwalin that he had obviously missed. “But you did not know what you were running after.”

“I think Bofur’s speech about Smaug’s fire-breathing abilities gave me a fair idea,” said Bilbo. “So fair it knocked me out cold.” Thorin started to laugh again and it made him wince a little. “I am glad to have shared in your perils, Thorin, and to have survived them. Now it takes a little more than the mere mention of a dragon to make me lose my footing.” Thorin smiled widely. “I have no regrets,” said Bilbo, “and neither should you.”

At that moment, the door opened and Balin and Oin came in. Balin was carrying a tray of food, which was no doubt Thorin’s breakfast, while Oin was lagging behind, bringing what Bilbo suspected were fresh towels.

“Good morning,” said Balin brightly, “how is everyone doing?”

“We’re fine, thank you,” responded Bilbo.

“Ah, glad to hear it,” said Balin, setting the tray on Thorin’s night table. “I hope you’re hungry,” he said, eyeing Thorin.

“Do I get to say no?” asked Thorin.

“Not really.”

Thorin smirked. “As it happens, I am hungry.”

“All for the better then.”

They all shared a laugh.

“Bilbo, the Company is gathered for breakfast in the dining hall. You can join them if you want,” said Balin with one of his special winks.

“Oh, yes, I think I’ll do that,” said Bilbo and stood up. He suspected that Balin was sending him away on purpose and that they would be doing a little more than changing Thorin’s dressings after he had finished eating. If they were about to do what he thought they would do, he certainly didn’t want to be there for it, and he knew that Thorin didn’t either. Besides, the idea of sharing a nice, peaceful breakfast with his friends appealed to him greatly. He smiled to Thorin and walked quietly towards the door. He collected his borrowed felt coat before walking out.

The rest of the Company were sitting around one of the tables in the great dining hall of Erebor, which had not yet regained the full splendor that Bilbo imagined it had possessed in the past, but which was at least free of dust and clutter. They waved to him with big smiles as they saw him. Even Dwalin spared a smile, although he did not wave. Bilbo greeted everyone, then sat down next to Ori and surveyed the table to see what looked fetching.

“Try the bacon,” Ori said at his side, “and the scones, they’re quite good.”

“There’s tea as well,” clammored Dori from the opposite side of the table, pointing to a large kettle a little to Bilbo’s right.

“Right, thank you,” said Bilbo, reaching for the tea.

“How’s Thorin doing?” asked Gloin, still munching in his great red beard.

“He’s well,” said Bilbo, “getting a little impatient in fact.”

“Huh, I’ll say,” said Gloin, “he’s never been one to lie around and be coddled.”

“I’m afraid he doesn’t have much choice,” said Bilbo with a half-smile.

“Aye, lad,” Gloin nodded, “that much is true.”

“He should be better by Yuletide, though,” called Bofur from the other end of the table, “we can’t have a Yule feast without the King.”

Everyone approved vigurously and there was a surge of optimism around the table that Bilbo could feel almost as a gust of warm wind. There were about ten days left until Yule, so Bofur’s hopes had good chances of being realised. Bilbo found himself irresitibly drawn to his companions’ enthusiasm and something in him longed for a great and well-catered feast.

“Do Hobbits celebrate Yule, Bilbo?” asked Ori.

“Oh, yes, yes, it’s our New Year, in fact.”

“Is that so? Then you must have a big celebration!”

“Yes, it’s usually rather big and noisy.”

His table companions laughed.

“We can make a fair amount of noise, too,” said Bofur, “as you well know, Bilbo. We’ll strive to make Yule as enjoyable for you as we can.”

“I have no doubt,” Bilbo shouted to cover the already loud sound of cheer around him.

Breakfast went on in fine Dwarven fashion, which, if Bilbo thought about it, was a more raucous version of a Hobbit breakfast, with merriment and food well enjoyed. It made him think of home and of everything that he was missing.

He knew that he was stuck there for the winter, but the thought of home always lingered at the back of his mind. Now that Thorin was getting better and would probably be recovered for the most part by the end of winter, Bilbo had to ask himself whether he would be staying on, or whether he was ready to return to Bag End. There was still time, but the decision was beginning to lurk in the distance, gaining contour with each day that passed. It was a decision harder to make than he would have liked it to be. He was fond of the Dwarves and he wished them well, but he really should have been getting back to his own business. Even if he was not the same Hobbit that had left the Shire, he was still a Hobbit, and he had plenty to get back to. And yet he couldn’t really tell if he was ready to part with Thorin. Perhaps he had changed more than he realised, and more than he had imagined he would. He had to wonder if he really was a Hobbit anymore if anything could feel more important to him than his own home.

Suddenly despondent, Bilbo excused himself and slowly made his way back to the Royal Quarters. He met Balin and Oin as they were coming out of Thorin’s bedroom. Both of them displayed slightly forced smiles.

“Something happened?” asked Bilbo as he came up to them.

“No, he’s understandably flustered about the... inevitable indignities of being confined to bed,” said Balin with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh.”

“And, well, we let his wounds air a bit. Dwarf royals aren’t bound to be very happy with being unclothed and covered in sticky ointments. At least it doesn’t smell bad.”

Bilbo barely withheld a chuckle.

“This would be a good time for you to wash his hair, Bilbo, if you’d like.”

“I’d be happy to,” said Bilbo, smiling to Balin and Oin, and watched them file out of the room in silence.

Then he took a deep breath and entered the bedroom slowly. He saw Thorin lying on his back across the bed, his hair flowing down the side of it. Apparently he was expecting a more pleasant end to his morning.

“Thorin?” called Bilbo, to get his attention, and advanced slowly towards him.

Thorin looked back at him over his forehead and eventually smiled as Bilbo approached him. He looked a little flushed and more than understandably flustered. The rest of him didn’t amuse Bilbo one bit. All of his wounds were unwrapped and anointed with one of Oin’s poultices. It did help that it didn’t smell bad, but not by much. The sight still startled the hobbit, and what startled him more was Thorin’s look of helplessness and the paleness of his skin in the bright light of late morning. He remembered being impressed with how strong Dwarves were, and Thorin was a fine example of that. Now he was a fine image of his kingdom, lost and found again, greatness and power set in flesh instead of stone, but charred and broken. Still, what seemed to bother Thorin most was unseen.

“I think it hurts less than your wounds,” Bilbo tried to smile.

“What?”

“Your dignity.”

Thorin scowled masterfully again, a definite sign that, in spite of the look of things, he really was healing. Then again, it was probably dignified for a Dwarf warrior to be wounded, especially for a king.

“At least you’ll have a fine set of scars to be proud of after this,” teased Bilbo, and this time Thorin responded with a little smirk.

The tension in the room faded, and Bilbo was overwhelmed with a sudden wave of affection for Thorin and his easily wounded pride. It was probably because he seemed to know how to make it better again, and how to make the good in him shine. And shine it did under the crystal light, clear and sky-blue in eyes that reminded Bilbo of gentle mornings of spring in the Shire and of the scent of hyacinth. Bilbo caressed the soft side of Thorin’s forehead with slightly disbelieving fingers, as if he almost expected his image to vanish under his touch like the ghost of hyacinths, but it didn’t. Thorin was still there, with his wounds and his pride and his hyacinth eyes. Bilbo leaned over him and finally gave him a kiss that he could feel, at the base of his regal nose. To his surprise, Thorin’s face acquired an even deeper shade of red. As Bilbo withdrew, he saw that Thorin was quite surprised himself. He had not expected the kiss. And Bilbo had not expected to give it, but he had.

“I’ll get some soap and water,” he said, smiling softly.

He collected the brush, soap and towels from the bathroom, then filled a bucket with warm water. All the while, he wondered how someone could still blush from a fairly innocent kiss on the forehead after having lived for over a century and a half. However that was possible and whatever it meant, it made Bilbo hopeful that he wasn’t the only one to be nervous about whatever was happening between them.

He returned to the bedroom and as he sat down behind Thorin, there was a definite glow radiating from him that was as far removed from wounded pride and indignity as day was from night. Thorin glanced back at him again. His eyes were swimming with a kind of hope that almost didn’t dare take flight but that was badly wanting to. The kiss had meant something, but it could not be talked about just yet. Bilbo wouldn’t have even known where to begin, but he knew that he didn’t have to, that the questions that he had of himself were being answered for him and that he couldn’t really stop his heart from wanting what it wanted.

Thorin’s gaze was probing for a confirmation that Bilbo’s gesture had not been in vain. The hobbit smiled to him and sustained his gaze until Thorin appeared satisfied with his answer. Balin had been right when he had said that being with Thorin would help him sort out his feelings. He knew that he had just shown to Thorin that he did love him back, in a way that surpassed friendship and that he couldn’t define in all its complexity. He wasn’t ready to tell him in words yet, or to tell himself even, and he wasn’t ready to act on it, but something was stirring in his heart, and he could no longer deny it when they were alone together.

Thorin withdrew his searching look, and Bilbo began by brushing his hair. With everything that he now knew, he was more aware than ever that what he was doing now carried a heavy meaning. If Thorin felt that, by caring for his hair, Bilbo was making some sort of pledge and that a spell was being wrought between them, he was well within his right to do so. Bilbo felt it, too.

As he ran his fingers slowly through the dwarf’s hair, he wondered if Thorin had ever shared such moments with Nyrath, if perhaps Nyrath had been more skilled than he was, and more bold. It was reasonable to think that he had been both. He had been a Dwarf, after all, and so he had been just as familiar with Dwarf ways as Thorin was. In the rare moment of peace that he was experiencing, the seed of doubt began again to darken his heart. The doubt that, even if he could no longer deny that he loved Thorin, he could not really give him what Nyrath had probably given him if he was still remembered with such vivid clarity after 140 years. That was most probably what Thorin expected of him now, and the one thing that he felt certain of was that he was not prepared for it, whatever it was.

Bilbo sighed a little too loudly as he laid the brush aside. Thorin shot an inquisitive glance back at him.

“It’s nothing,” said Bilbo, “close your eyes.” He waited until Thorin finally did so, and then started wetting his hair. “I think they’re starting to get excited about Yuletide out there,” he said. “Bofur says they can’t have a Yule feast without you. Think you can muster a little more patience until next week? You should be able to get out of bed by then if you sit tight.”

Thorin mumbled an affirmative answer, slightly more petulance in his voice than Bilbo had expected after giving him definite hope that he would be out of bed soon. He smiled, though, realising that it was just Thorin starting to be Thorin again. And, once more, he wondered if Nyrath had had to dodge and sweeten Thorin’s less than bright moods, if he too had come to love even those and recognize them as simply aspects of Thorin’s personality. That was a question that he would probably never have the answer to, and he would have to settle for his own guess. And he guessed that the answer was yes.

As usual, Thorin was starting to doze off as Bilbo soaped his hair, against either pain or annoyance, so Bilbo said nothing more and applied himself to his task. It was probably better to concentrate on the practical side of things and think less about what they meant.

Bilbo tried to follow that philosophy for the remainder of the week and the start of the next, but it didn’t quite work, not entirely. For a welcome change, there wasn’t much awkwardness anymore between him and Thorin, but he could see that Thorin was still very careful with what he said and did around him. He didn’t want to make Bilbo uncomfortable again, and although Bilbo appreciated his courtesy, it also made him feel guilty. And, inevitably, his mind wandered where it should not have wandered, to a past that was not his own, to Nyrath. He couldn’t help filtering all his interactions with Thorin through the spectre of that person who was long dead, but who still seemed very much alive in Thorin’s memory. He wondered how Nyrath had touched him, how much less he had hesitated to act on his feelings, how much more open he had been to Thorin’s own.

If there had ever been a time when he could have used Gandalf’s advice, this was it. He was lucky to have Balin to talk to, but he couldn’t talk to him about this, not all of it. Not without possibly betraying Thorin’s confidence. If Gandalf had been there, he could have told him freely that being with Thorin now made him feel like the ground was constantly slipping from under his feet, that he was losing control of his thoughts and emotions, and that it exhausted him beyond belief. But Gandalf was not there.

The day before Yule Eve was bright and beautiful although it was cold. Even if Bilbo was not at home for that most important of holidays, he could not be closer to feeling at home. Erebor was a long way from displaying its full festive grandeur, but it was filled with life and happiness, and a very genuine wonder at hosting a Yule feast within its halls for the first time in over a century and a half. Bilbo was not immune to the happy hustle and bustle around him, but he could not say that he felt it entirely, and for the first time in many years after his parents’ death, his enthusiasm for Yuletide was shaded by melancholy.

He was now leaning against the rebuilt parapet over the Gate of the Lonely Mountain, wrapped in a fur-lined overcoat that Thorin had advised him to take out of his dressing closet. It was nice and warm, but he still felt strange wearing Dwarven clothes. They didn’t quite fit him, and he couldn’t stop thinking that it was perhaps a sign that his place was not there and that it would never be.

His gaze was not lost into the distance before him, but rather descended down the wall of the mountain kingdom and scattered among the goings on below. He was not really seeing the Dwarves and Men coming and going, and he did not hear their chatter. They only registered somewhere at the back of his mind. What he did see was the ever-plunging darkness of his own heart.

An unfamiliar noise drew Bilbo slowly out of his thoughts, a shuffling noise, as if someone was walking with a limp towards him. He turned and caught sight of Fili, advancing with some difficulty in his right leg and relying on the support of crutches under both of his arms.

“Fili!” said Bilbo, turning towards him. “I didn’t know you were up and about!”

“Yes, I was beginning to grow roots in that bed.” Although he looked tired, Fili was smiling and all of his golden braids were in place.

“I’m glad you’re feeling well enough. What about Kili?”

“He’s still with uncle, but he should be out soon as well,” said Fili as he came closer to Bilbo and stopped near the ledge in the mountain wall that served as seating. He let go of the crutch under his left arm and leaned it against the rock.

“Oh, do you need help?” offered Bilbo.

“Yes, thank you.”

Bilbo kept a steady grip of Fili’s left arm as he eased himself down. The hobbit sat down at his side as Fili leaned against the wall of the mountain and breathed deeply.

“So you’ve been to see Thorin,” said Bilbo, smiling.

Fili nodded, visibly relieved. “He looked well. It is a wonder that he’s even alive.”

“Yes, it was close there for a while. But then it was for you, too.”

“Mhm,” Fili approved thoughtfully.

“What happened out there on the battlefield?” asked Bilbo.

“We tried our best to protect him,” sighed Fili, “but for Dwarves youth is rarely an advantage. It takes more to slow down an older and more experienced Dwarf than it did to put us out of commission. Eventually, he was alone with Azog and his pack of Orcs, and not even Thorin has endless resources, as much as he would like that to be true.” Bilbo grinned. “Not to mention he hadn’t slept and eaten properly in days.”

“Sometimes I think his will alone keeps him,” said Bilbo, grin fading into a smile, and he put a hand on Fili’s forearm. “What matters is that you’re all alive and well.”

“Indeed. A Dwarf warrior must always be ready to die, but I would have hated to miss all this. And it would have probably made our mother very angry.”

“Is she really that stern?” asked Bilbo. “I heard Dain speak along the same lines about her.”

A sweet smile graced Fili’s face. “No. She’s just... our mother. And as much of a descendant of Durin as Thorin is. She’s just slightly less impulsive than he is.”

“I see.”

“If you stick around long enough, perhaps you’ll get to meet her.”

“Huh, perhaps,” replied Bilbo a little uncomfortably.

Fili’s smile lingered. “And how are you, Bilbo?”

“Oh, I’m fine, I only had a few scratches anyway.”

“That hardly looks like a simple scratch,” said Fili, pointing to the healing mark on Bilbo’s forehead.

Bilbo shrugged, “It wasn’t really that bad.”

“Have you been able to rest at all in that armchair of yours?”

Bilbo smiled nervously again. He didn’t feel particularly willing to tell Fili that he had been sharing Thorin’s bed for a good long while, although he realised that the possibility of him sleeping in an armchair for about three weeks was more than far-fetched. “The armchair isn’t that bad either,” said Bilbo.

“Hmm,” continued Fili, “you must miss your warm bed at home. I remember the one I slept in was quite comfortable.”

“I haven’t really had time to think about that, but, yes, I suppose I do.”

“Bilbo!” Kili’s voice came from a little distance at their side.

Bilbo looked in the direction of the call and saw the younger dwarf coming towards where he and Fili were sitting, limping less and without crutches, but still bearing clear marks of his battle injuries in the way he moved. He finally came up to them, wide smile beaming on his face, and Bilbo stood up for a hug. Then he invited Kili to sit down at Fili’s side and retook his own seat.

“Bilbo, I must compliment you on a job well done,” said Kili, “Thorin’s recovering really well. I think he might be able to join us in the celebrations tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” said Bilbo, “it wasn’t always easy.”

The two brothers approved with knowing nods.

“I hope you will join us, too?” asked Kili.

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“Good. Will you be going back soon then? Back home, I mean,” added Kili.

Bilbo stared at him a bit, then at Fili, who was also looking to be waiting for an aswer. “Uh, I don’t know yet.”

“I’m sure we can spare someone to go with you. You can’t expect to make the return journey alone,” offered Fili.

“No, it’s not that.”

“Is it because of uncle?” probed Kili.

Bilbo looked up at him surprised for a second. “Yes, it’s because of your uncle.”

“You don’t have to stay out of guilt, Bilbo,” said Fili.

“It’s not guilt,” said Bilbo with a flicker of a smile pulling at his lips. “Not entirely, at least.”

Then he saw the two brothers grinning at each other. “We suspected as much,” said Kili, glee dancing in his soft brown eyes.

Bilbo blushed instantly. “You did?”

“Well, a mithril shirt isn’t a gift easily given,” said Fili. “Thorin obviously wanted to take no risks as far your safety was concerned.”

“And if ever love was blind!” said Kili. “He’d even suspect us of taking the Arkenstone, but not you.”

“And you blush every time we mention his name,” added Fili. “We didn’t believe for a second you were staying just because you wanted to recover your strength.”

They were both grinning triumphantly now, and Bilbo felt like crawling under the nearest rock. He had to content himself with covering his face with both hands.

“We also suspect that’s why he’s so... patient with being a patient,” Fili said.

Bilbo snorted, his face still covered. Then he felt a hand gently squeezing his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Bilbo, you don’t have to be embarrassed,” said Fili. “This is not a bad thing. It’s very good in fact.”

“Is it?” Bilbo finally faced them again.

“It isn’t?” asked Kili, visibly dismayed.

Bilbo looked down at his hands. “I don’t know. I truly don’t know.”

“But you obviously feel the same,” said Fili.

“Yes, but I don’t belong here. I belong in Bag End.”

“Well, it’s normal for you to still miss home,” said Kili. “But it doesn’t mean that you don’t belong here. I mean, we would all love it if you stayed.”

Bilbo smiled at the young dwarf. “Thank you, Kili, that’s very nice of you to say.”

“We mean it,” said Fili.

Bilbo looked at him and saw that he was suddenly very serious.

“Listen, Bilbo,” continued Fili, “this isn’t really our business, but may I offer an opinion?” Bilbo nodded. “Think about what you would miss most. Perhaps that will help you decide where you belong.”

Bilbo found himself smiling widely at that. It seemed that Gandalf and Balin weren’t the only ones who could impart wise advice. There was something to be said, after all, for Dwarf youth.

“Now, you’ve grown a little too serious for your own good,” said Fili, reverting to a more playful tone, and putting his arm around Bilbo. “We have a feast to look forward to. And the Dwarves of Erebor know how to throw a feast.”

Bilbo laughed. “I noticed.”

 


	12. Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erebor gets a Yuletide makeover, Bilbo bakes cakes and Tauriel makes a guest appearance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is curious about Bilbo's lemon and lavender biscuits, here's the recipe I used for inspiration: http://www.mytartelette.com/recipe-apricot-and-lavender-brown/

As Bilbo, Fili and Kili sat out in the sunshine on the terrace above the Gate of the Lonely Mountain, the sound of commotion came from below. They all stood up, Fili relying on Bilbo’s arm, and went over to the parapet to investigate. There was a horse-drawn cart coming on the road from Dale, filled with what appeared to be evergreen shrubs. The cart was being driven by two Mirkwood elves. Another one was riding before it.

“Tauriel!” said Kili breathlessly as he recognized the elf in front. Then he flashed a sun-filled grin to Bilbo and Fili and bolted down the stairs, having seemingly forgotten all about his battle wounds even if they had not yet forgotten him.

Bilbo stared after him, then looked back to Fili, who raised a mischievous eyebrow. “Let’s follow,” he said. “I can’t miss this for the world.”

Grateful for an opportunity to feel less serious about life in general, Bilbo lent Fili his arm. It would have made for an easier descent of the stairs that led down to the Gate than relying fully on his crutches would have allowed. And it gave Bilbo time to appreciate his company and to think of how unlike that darkest time of the year Fili and his brother were. Their very presence, still youthful and lively even after they had faced war and death, was the living proof that darkness was only a veil under which light gathered strength.

By the time they walked out into the open, the cart had stopped and several dwarves had gathered around it. Tauriel had dismounted, and she was talking to Kili. She smiled and bowed her head slightly as she caught sight of Bilbo and Fili.

“Very glad to see you both again,” she said, in her lithe, silvery voice that reminded Bilbo of why he loved the Elves.

“We’re glad to see you!” replied Fili.

“Yes, yes, quite,” added Bilbo. “I trust you’re all right, after the battle and all.”

“I am, thank you.”

“What, uh-” began Fili, looking at the cart.

“Oh, I was just telling Kili that our King wanted to send you some decorations for the Yuletide feast. We know that the dragon has destroyed everything outside the mountain, so we thought it would be welcome. We have a lot of evergreen we can spare. There is also a log under there.”

“The Elvenking is very generous,” said Fili, suddenly sounding solemn. “You must relay our thanks to him.”

“Of course, I will,” said Tauriel with another gentle bow of her head.

All around them, dwarves had begun to carry armloads of evergreen inside the mountain and slowly a great, long tree trunk was revealed at the bottom of the cart. Bilbo recognized the bark to be that of an ash tree. As he followed the course of the log inside the mountain, his gaze fell upon Dain, who was coming out towards them. Behind him walked Gloin, carrying a large box in his arms.

Dain nodded to everyone, then gestured for Gloin to come forward. Gloin opened the box, revealing a wreath of gold and precious stones. “A small gift for King Thranduil,” said Dain, looking at Tauriel with restrained courtesy. “As a token of our gratitude,” he continued, and Bilbo thought he could hear him grit his teeth.

“Thank you, Lord Dain,” said Tauriel, affecting a good disposition more convincingly. “I am sure King Thranduil will appreciate it.” Then she gestured to her companions to collect the box from Gloin. “May I ask how King Thorin is feeling? My Lord Thranduil would welcome news of his recovery.”

“He’s well,” replied Dain, with a thin smile. “He is not yet fully recovered, but he is getting there.”

Tauriel bowed her forehead lower this time.

“Now, if you will excuse me,” said Dain, “I must be getting back.” Dain greeted the elves with the same reserved ceremony, then he and Gloin started back inside the mountain.

“I believe we should be going back as well,” said Tauriel, looking to Kili, Bilbo and Fili. A shade of regret fell over her face.

“Will you not stay a while?” asked Kili.

Tauriel hesitated to offer an answer right away. She glanced over her shoulder briefly, as if she wanted to say something that she would have preferred her companions not to hear. “I cannot stay,” she said, eventually. Then, she brightened back suddenly. “Oh, I almost forgot. I meant to give this back to you.” She removed something from her pocket, held it in her hand and then presented it to Kili. It was the rune stone that his mother had given to him so that he would remember to come back to her.

“It was a gift. Keep it,” said Kili.

“I cannot. You must show it to your mother when you see her again. It would not be right for me to keep it.”

Kili accepted the stone and looked at it despondently for a bit, but not for too long. “Then you must accept something else in its place,” he said and began unfastening a braid that he was wearing at the back of his head and that Bilbo had not really noticed before. “I know you don’t wear beads in your hair,” he said as he was left with a shining silver cuff in his palm, “but perhaps you will still like this.”

“It’s lovely, thank you,” said Tauriel with a little smile, taking the cuff from Kili’s hand and hiding it inside her pocket.

“I hope to see you again,” said Kili. “Perhaps you’d like to visit sometime?”

“Sometime,” she said, a hint of a promise subtly bright in her voice.

Then, Tauriel mounted her horse and signalled to her companions to turn around. Kili, Fili and Bilbo waved as the elves rode away, back to Mirkwood. Kili held his hand in the air the longest.

“Thorin will like this,” said Fili, coming up at Kili’s side.

“What? The mistletoe?” asked Kili, with a cheeky grin.

Fili gave his brother a withering look. “You making friends with an Elf maiden.”

Kili swallowed a little painfully and looked back at the road, sparkling white with snow behind the elves. “I imagine he will.”

Bilbo felt for the young dwarf and for his own troublesome matters of the heart. But perhaps sometimes it was worth the trouble, and perhaps sometimes it did not mean much if there was no trouble attached. He also could not help wondering how many of the Dwarves would have actually liked what was going on between him and Thorin had they known about it. Surely, the Company seemed to know something. Fili and Kili, and even Balin seemed to approve, and there weren’t any signs of opposition from the others, but Dwalin was obviously of a different opinion. And he had to wonder how many others would have seen things the way Dwalin did if they’d known what Dwalin knew.

“Bilbo,” a voice came clamouring from behind, curtailing Bilbo’s thoughts.

He turned and saw Bofur walking towards him with a definite bounce in his step.

“Bilbo, there you are,” said Bofur, coming closer. “I thought you were with Thorin.”

“No, I… wanted to get some air. Anything the matter?”

“Ah, no, no. I just wanted to ask you if you would help us with something,” said Bofur, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Hmm, might I ask with what?”

“We’re struggling a little in the kitchen. We could use a good baker, and from what I remember, you are one.”

“Well,” said Bilbo puffing out his chest. “I know a bit about baking, I suppose. I’ll help gladly.”

“Great, come with me,” said Bofur.

Bilbo took his leave from Fili and Kili and followed Bofur to the Royal Kitchen, animated by the prospect of helping the dwarves with something that truly was within his area of expertise.

It did look like they needed help. The kitchen looked a bit like a battlefield, with plumes of steam rising here and there from great black pots, and about half a dozen dwarves slicing and spicing large chunks of meat.

“Bilbo!” called Bombur, who was trying to beat some eggs while giving out instructions or answering questions. “I’m so glad you’re here! Would you kindly beat these eggs for me?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Bilbo, looking back at Bofur, who winked at him and went over to one of the steaming pots and started stirring meticulously.

Bombur abandoned the bowl of eggs and started looking around for something. “Ah!” he said, having found it, “put this on.” He handed Bilbo a light blue apron.

Bilbo smiled in thanks and donned the apron, then took over for Bombur, as the large dwarf started rummaging in a cupboard below the counter.

“Uhm, what kind of meat is that?” asked Bilbo, looking behind over his shoulder at the frantically working dwarves.

“Boar!” clamoured Bombur, his head now almost completely inside the cupboard.

“Boar?”

“Yes!” said Bombur, emerging from the cupboard with a great flour sack in his arms. “What do you have at the Yuletide feast?”

“Pork,” said Bilbo.

“Well, we have boar,” said Bombur, placing the sack of flour on the counter and breathing out in relief.

“Where did it come from? I thought nothing lived in these parts anymore.”

“Dain had it brought over from the Iron Hills. They have more than enough.”

“Oh, I see.”

“We’re expecting a few barrels of strong ale later, too.”

“Oh!”

“You have to drink it, you know,” said Bombur, eyeing Bilbo in serious fashion.

“What?”

“You have to drink ale on Yule Eve. Otherwise it’s bad luck.”

“I don’t have a problem with that,” said Bilbo, whisking away.

Bombur smiled at him in approval.

“So, what are we making here?” asked Bilbo.

“Yule cakes,” responded Bombur as he opened the sack of flour. “We have to make at least one for each dwarf.”

“Right,” said Bilbo. “What’s in them?”

“Honey, raisins and dried currants.”

“Sounds rather good,” said Bilbo.

Bombur winked in response.

“Do you mind if I make one of my own recipes?” asked Bilbo. “I mean, if there’s time left.”

“Oh, no, not at all.”

They set to work on the Yule cakes, and something woke in Bilbo which he had not felt in a very long time. It was a kind of soft, warm pleasure at having his hands covered in flour and sugar, at knowing that just by bringing together a few simple ingredients and applying a little attention, he could make something that would have delighted the palate and the soul alike. Bilbo loved all food, making it as well as eating it, but cakes, tarts and biscuits were his favourites. It seemed to him that, in the case of baking, the transformation was the most miraculous. He had in fact forgotten this pleasure over the long months that he had travelled the world with Thorin and the other dwarves. He tried to remember the last time that he had baked anything. It had probably been the morning of the day when his unexpected guests had come. He had made the lovely seedcakes that Dwalin had eaten with such zest.

Of course, he usually did not have companions in his kitchen at home, but he found that he quite enjoyed the experience. This made him look at Bombur, to try and determine his state of mind. The dwarf seemed to be taking just as much pleasure in his task of pouring the cake batter into baking pans.

“Bombur,” said Bilbo as he cracked more eggs into the bowl in front of him, “did you ever think you would get to do this? I mean, bake in the kitchen of Erebor?”

Bombur gave him a furtive glance. “No, not really. None of us thought we would get this far. We just followed Thorin where he led.”

Bilbo smiled to him. “But I understand you had a pretty comfortable life back in the Blue Mountains.”

“Oh, indeed. It wasn’t at all bad. We had food, clothing. I can’t say there was much we were lacking.”

“And yet you followed Thorin away from all that.”

“He is our king, Bilbo. We would not have our life in the Blue Mountains without him. We owed him this much. It’s for us that he did all this, not just for himself.”

Bilbo lowered his gaze to his bowl of eggs, but stopped working. He realised that he had never really talked to Bombur about why he had come on the quest, or to any of the other dwarves, for that matter. He had always taken it for granted that they were confident in the success of the quest, and that it was somehow easier for them to be on the road for so long because of that. It seemed that he had been wrong.

“Of course, we have much to thank you for as well,” said Bombur.

Bilbo looked back up at him, startled. “Oh, I... I’m just glad we saw the end of it, and that we’re all alive.”

“Indeed.”

They exchanged a long glance, rich with the awareness of how precious this moment was and of how lucky they both were that they were living it.

They returned to their work and their conversation moved on to less heavy subjects such as what kind of cakes Hobbits baked for Yuletide, and what drinks they put on the table. Bombur seemed pleasantly surprised by the fact that Hobbits actually baked their cakes in the shape of a log and that they also contained honey and dried fruit. He listened intently to Bilbo as he told him that, in addition to their own variety of ale, Hobbits also enjoyed drinking mulled wine and apple cider at the Yule feast. All the while, however, the truth of their earlier exchange remained afloat in the space between them. Bilbo could feel it there at the back of his own mind, and he could see it in Bombur’s eyes, which glowed with quiet gladness.

A few hours later, they had more than enough cakes for everyone to enjoy. They were all beautifully round and baked to a golden crisp. Bombur shared one with Bilbo, to see what they had achieved together. It was soft, richly sweet and quite delicious, and Bilbo could say that he was proud of himself. He also felt more like himself than he had felt in a long time.

As Bilbo munched on the last bit of cake, Bombur set his hands in his hips and said, “I believe you have time for your own recipe if you still want to make it. Do you want help?”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” said Bilbo.

“What will it be?” asked Bombur.

“Lemon and lavender biscuits,” said the hobbit proudly.

“Did you say lavender?”

“That’s right. You don’t use lavender in your baking?”

“I can’t say that we do. We only use it for soaps and various oils and for keeping our clothes fresh.”

“Well,” said Bilbo, “then you’re about to try something new. Do you happen to have any lavender here?”

Bombur nodded and indicated a bunch of lavender than hung above the counter a little farther to Bilbo’s left.

Bilbo helped himself to some purple flowers and proceeded to perform some more baking magic, earning dubious looks from Bombur but also valuable and unwavering help.

It was already late when they were done. In spite of retaining an appearance of surprise till the very end, Bombur enjoyed the final result of Bilbo’s recipe quite a bit, and even offered a biscuit to Bofur with high recommendations. This gave Bilbo every reason to end his day of baking in the kitchen of Erebor feeling happy and accomplished. He wrapped two of his biscuits in a tea towel to take with him and wished everybody a good night.

He did not go straight to bed, however. As he stepped out of the kitchen, something tugged at his curiosity to see what had been happening elsewhere in the Mountain while he had been busy baking. Instead of walking on to the Royal Quarters, he tucked the bundle of biscuits neatly into his coat pocket and made his way to the Dining Hall, which he knew was to be the main focus of the celebrations the following day. When he finally stood in its entrance, he knew that his curiosity had not woken in vain. The log had been set into a large rectangular fire pit that acted as a rather spectacular centrepiece for the room, and two tall golden candlesticks stood on either side of the fire pit. Wreaths adorned the stone pillars of the hall, some of gold, some of holly and ivy. There were also garlands hanging from the ceiling, weaving together evergreen and golden lace, and supporting gems of all colours and thin bunches of mistletoe that made Bilbo feel as if he was looking up into a magical sky. He had never seen such splendour in his life, and it took his breath away. And he wished that Thorin could see it.

“Oh, my, this is… incredible,” said Bilbo, unable to look away, but catching a glimpse of Gloin as he came to welcome him.

“Aye. We had satisfying decorations in the Blue Mountains as well, but nothing like this,” said Gloin, his voice betraying awe.

“Huh, I imagine not…” Bilbo’s voice trailed as he continued to stare. Then he composed himself and looked briefly at his interlocutor. “I have to say I’m surprised that you use evergreen for decoration.”

“Well, back in the days when Dwarves were allies with the Elves, I mean, real allies, it was a sign of our friendship. And, I suppose it is a way of reminding ourselves that we need the world outside of our mountain cities as much as it needs us.”

“Right,” said Bilbo, smiling.

“So,” said Gloin, slightly lower, “I hear Thorin won’t be joining us in the celebrations tomorrow.”

“No, I don’t think he’s strong enough for that yet. Although I wish he could at least have a look at all this.”

“Perhaps in a few days,” said Gloin. “We’ll leave everything as it is for a while. And I hear from Balin that we’ll be having a small gathering in his quarters, just us, the Company. I’m sure that’ll lift his spirits a bit.”

Bilbo smiled to him. “I expect so.”

They gazed at each other silently for a little while. The words that they were not speaking didn’t need to be spoken. Bilbo could see in Gloin’s warm eyes that Thorin’s absence from the midst of his people carried just as much weight as his presence did. They went about their lives with apparent diligence, and even enthusiasm. They certainly had much to do, and Dain was there to watch over them, but they all seemed to be waiting for something still, something that would have finally given them a sense of closure and allowed them to move on. They were waiting for their king to take back his rightful place.

Bilbo looked away eventually, his eyes sweeping over the tables that were being set around the room, his thoughts scattered still somewhere in the undefinable space of his mind. Something drew his attention back to the matters at hand, however. He noticed something peculiar about the placing of the seats. Each table had one end occupied, but not the other.

“Gloin, why are there seats at only one end of the tables?”

“It is a custom that we observe on Yule Eve,” said Gloin. “We lay one extra place at the dining table for those who are no longer with us but whom we remember fondly.”

“Oh, I see,” said Bilbo. That would have included Thorin’s grandfather, his father, his brother and Nyrath. Bilbo slipped back into that thoughtful daze in which he seemed to spend much of his time of late. But he realised soon enough that Gloin was there and that he was looking at him. “Well,” said Bilbo, “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Gloin nodded and even bowed a little. Bilbo wished him a good night and finally made his way back to the Royal Quarters.

As he entered the sitting room outside Thorin’s bedroom, he discovered that the fever of Yuletide preparations had reached there as well. Ori and Dori were hanging garlands and wreaths around the room, similar to those he had seen in the Dining Hall, while Balin and Dwalin were placing a pair of golden candle sticks on the sides of the hearth, where part of the log resided. It seemed as if his wish that Thorin could have seen the splendour of the Dining Hall was going to come true, even if on a smaller scale.

“Can I help?” asked Bilbo, closing the door behind him.

“Oh, Bilbo,” said Balin, “I hadn’t even noticed you’d come in.” The old dwarf straightened his back, breathing a little heavily, but looking content of the arrangement that he and his brother had set up. “Right, well, you can take that mistletoe on the table and hang it to Thorin’s bed,” added Balin, pointing to a vigorous bunch of dark green mistletoe lying on the edge of a large table that had not been there before.

Bilbo looked at it, wondering how much Thorin would like it, considering all that he had learned from Gloin about Dwarves’ use of evergreen in their Yule decor. “Uh, does he know it’s from the Elves?”

Balin made a bit of a face. “Yes. He took it quite well.”

“I see,” said Bilbo. “Anything else I can do?”

“No, we are almost done,” said Balin. “It’s late anyway. I don’t think Thorin has been able to rest at all on our account.”

Bilbo smiled to him and collected the mistletoe. “I suppose I’ll see you all tomorrow then,” he said.

The dwarves each bade their greetings, and Bilbo finally walked inside Thorin’s bedroom.

Thorin looked more alert than Bilbo had expected him to look. He raised his head from his pillows and smiled widely at the hobbit. They had not seen each other since that morning, when Bilbo had left him in lively conclave with Dain to go outside and ruminate on the usual things that shadowed his heart in those days. He realised that he had not thought of any of it all day since he had been swept off by Bofur to join the preparations for the Yule feast.

Something in Thorin’s luminous smile told Bilbo that he had missed him. And if he searched his own heart, he found that the feeling was mutual. Even if he could say that he’d had an eventful day, and eventful in a good way, for a change, he felt that something had been missing, that he had not been fully present for any of it, that part of him had stayed behind with Thorin in his room and it had been there all along. Now that he was with Thorin again, it was as if he had been put back together by an unseen hand. He imagined that he would have felt something very similar had he found himself on the doorstep of Bag End again. For the first time since he had heard it, he remembered Fili’s advice of trying to determine whether he would miss Thorin more than his home or the other way round. It had sounded simple when Fili had said it and it had come as an actual relief for his indecision, but now he understood that it only complicated things. It was not the kind of question that he could answer in a matter of days, and certainly not without knowing more of what he would be missing if he had chosen to return home.

He cleared his throat a bit, in an attempt to clear the air of a growing weight, and finally walked to Thorin’s bed. As he did so, he noticed more of the golden garlands hanging around the frames of the windows. He smiled to himself and leaned over the bed to hang the mistletoe to the headboard.

“You smell of cake,” said Thorin, looking up at him.

“I’ve been helping with the baking for tomorrow,” replied Bilbo, glancing down as he still struggled to hang the mistletoe. He was grateful that Thorin’s first words to him had been so matter-of-fact. Finally, he stepped back, task accomplished, and sighed in relief. Even if his words had been matter-of-fact, Thorin’s gaze was still unnervingly dreamy. In spite of that, Bilbo remembered. “Oh, I brought you something!” He reached inside his pocket and produced a little bundle of white cloth. He pulled the cloth aside and revealed two round golden cookies with little purple dots in them. “This is something that we make for Yuletide in the Shire. They’re lemon and lavender biscuits, fresh out of the oven. Try one.”

“Lavender?” asked Thorin, visibly doubtful.

“That’s right,” said Bilbo. “I eat these all the time and I’m still around. Well, I used to eat them.”

Thorin gave him a half-glare and collected one of the biscuits from Bilbo’s hand. He bit into it tentatively, then shot Bilbo a surprised look.

“It’s not so bad, is it?” asked Bilbo.

“Quite on the contrary,” said Thorin as he took a more daring bite.

“Well, I’ll leave this here then,” said Bilbo, relieved, and laid the tea towel with the other biscuit on Thorin’s bedside table. “I’m going to wash up for bed.”

When Bilbo came back, Thorin was leaning against his pillow with a particularly content air about him, and the two biscuits were gone. Bilbo rewarded him with a smile and climbed into bed at his side.

Thorin welcomed him with a light in his eyes that did not seem to be of that world. “Thank you,” he said, “for the lavender biscuits.”

“Ah, it was no trouble at all. I enjoyed helping out in the kitchen today. It felt a bit like… home.”

“You miss it, now more than ever.”

“I suppose I do.”

“I hope this will not sound unkind, but I am glad you are here with us at this time.”

“No, I’m glad, too. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather spend Yuletide with this year more than with the Company of Thorin Oakenshield. Well, now you’re a little more than that.”

“Not to you,” said Thorin.

Bilbo thought for a moment. “Perhaps. But it’s hard to ignore when you are to everyone else.”

“Does it bother you?”

“No!” Bilbo said quickly. “I’m glad your dream has come true and that you get to live it.”

Thorin donned another otherworldly smile. “I want you to live it with me,” he whispered.

Bilbo properly gaped.

“I mean,” Thorin continued, apparently aware of saying too much, “while you are here.”

Bilbo swallowed the lump in his throat. “Of course,” he said, his voice a little wispier than before. “I, I’ll be happy to.”

Thorin looked like he was going to apologize again, so Bilbo did his best to appear confident in his answer in order to save him from it. Now it felt a little awkward to be staring at one another without words, unlike other times. Whatever Thorin had truly meant, Bilbo could not fathom it if he tried, nor did he want to. Now it could have been a good time to use the magic ring that he still carried in his pocket. He could have easily slipped it on his finger and disappeared. He only had to stick his hand into his pocket casually. It would have been so quick that Thorin would not have even noticed. But Bilbo could not have justified such a gesture to himself, let alone to Thorin.

It was strange. He had wanted Thorin to live so desperately, not just because he deserved it, but also because he perceived a possibility that Thorin could show him more of that which had remained unknown to him in the Shire. And now that his life was finally out of danger, all he wanted deep down in the smallest corner of his heart was to run away every time Thorin pushed him in that direction, even weak and bedridden as he was.

“I think we should get some sleep,” Bilbo said eventually.

Thorin nodded and settled more comfortably into his pillow. Bilbo turned on his back and stared at the ceiling longer than he would have liked. There was a pool of dim light visible in the round opening above the bed, a sign of a clear sky and a moon-filled night. He wondered why anyone would put a small window right above a bed, but it wasn’t placed so that the light fell on the face of the sleeper. It was set further towards the foot of the bed, and therefore it acted as a gentle hint of the succession of day and night outside. After having spent almost a month in that room, Bilbo had actually become able to tell the time well enough by the kind of light that came through the little well in the ceiling.

Bilbo finally turned on his side, facing away from Thorin. The dwarf was already snoring lightly, so he clearly wouldn’t have minded it. He was eager to take part in the celebrations the next day, but also a little apprehensive as to what they might bring for him. It was, after all, the end of a year and the start of a new one for Bilbo, and he wondered what new journeys the coming year had in store for him, if he had stayed in Erebor. On Yule Eve, what he usually expected from the new year was more quiet dinners and lovely tea parties, rain and sunshine in good measure for his garden, and a successful winemaking season. This year he did not know what to expect. And the thought of it kept him awake for most of the long night.


	13. The Darkest Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fear not the dark, for darkness is only light that sleeps...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of "Days of Agony", but it is definitely not the end. Bilbo and Thorin's new adventures in Erebor will continue soon in a new story :)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been reading and reviewing! Your support has given me the confidence to take this story to its end, and want to write more. It's the greatest gift you can give to a writer!

Bilbo woke to the sparkling, woolly light that usually came with sunny mornings. He rubbed his eyes to dispel the lingering sleepiness and realised that he had slept more deeply than usual, no doubt a side-effect of a day spent in the scent-laden, hot chaos of a kitchen. He rose on his elbows and blinked a few times until his vision cleared. There was indeed something sparkling in the room, but it was not the light itself. It was the finely threaded gold and gems of the garlands hanging around the windows. This was not the Yule décor that he was accustomed to, but there was little of the familiar in his life now. In fact, the one thing that he had become familiar with in the past year was the occurrence of the unexpected. Bilbo lay back down in bed, and stared at the ceiling with its pool of sunlight streaming from the outside.

Then, as he tried to picture the world beyond, he felt more and more keenly that he was being watched. He turned his head and met a different kind of light, one that seemed to weave the sun and the sparkling gems into something magical.

“Thorin,” said Bilbo a little startled. “I didn’t realise you were awake.”

Thorin smiled secretly, as if there was a world of meaning behind that smile that would have taken him hours to express in words and even then he wouldn’t have managed to say it all. He seemed to have managed to turn on his left side during the night, in spite of the serious injuries in his arm and shoulder. And who knew how long he had been awake and watching Bilbo? He didn’t look freshly woken.

“Is there anything you need?” asked Bilbo, trying to fill the space between them with something other than things unspoken.

“No,” said Thorin, a dreamy tone laced in his voice, “I have everything I need right here.”

Bilbo smiled nervously, he knew. Thorin seemed bolder with words in the past few days, and less willing to make it look like he regretted it. “Surely, there is more you need than me.”

“No, not really.”

“Well, for one thing, you need to get better, and for that you need water and food and care,” said Bilbo, rising again on his elbows.

Thorin followed him with his eyes. “I will get better.”

Bilbo looked at him, realising he had been talking a little too fast and with too much aplomb. “Yes, of course you will.” He lay back down and sighed, then studied the ceiling for a bit longer, not really letting his gaze be stopped in its skyward flight by the mountain of stone above him. He turned again to Thorin. “What I meant was, you need to rebuild your kingdom now that you’ve got it back. You need to fulfill your promise to your people, and to yourself. You need to be their king. You would never be happy otherwise.”

“And I will do all that. But I would be just as unhappy if you went away,” said Thorin, a shadow draping over his previously shining voice.

“Is this what you hoped for with Nyrath? To have him and your throne, too?”

The shadow deepened in Thorin’s eyes, and their focus fell away to a nether land of haze. “That… would have never been possible.”

 “And it will be possible with me?” asked Bilbo.

Thorin looked back to him, conviction blazing renewed in his eyes. “Yes.”

“Really? How? What has changed?”

“I owe nothing more to no one,” said Thorin, with a subtle note of anger. “My promise was to get Erebor back, and I have. What I do with myself from now on is my concern only.”

Bilbo smiled. “The Company seems to think so. I wonder if everyone else will be as accepting as they are.”

Thorin remained silent for a while, unable to dispel Bilbo’s doubts with certainty. “I will understand if you choose to go back home,” he conceded, sounding prematurely defeated. “I can ask someone to go with you as soon as you wish.”

His gaze dropped again to the level of Bilbo’s throat and his striking eyes radiated in the morning light a sad beauty that was more than Bilbo could resist even if he risked angering all the Dwarves in Middle Earth. “I don’t know yet if I want to,” he whispered.

Thorin’s gaze shot back up to him, illuminated by fresh hope.

Bilbo had made his own promises, to his parents and to himself, to always care for Bag End and to ensure that there would always be a Baggins living there. But in the face of such beauty as he now saw in Thorin’s face, rarefied by lengthy illness into something entirely not of that world, he found it hard to hold fast to those promises and to what he had thought until then to be his lot in life on that good and green earth.

“Well,” he said, smiling again to Thorin, “I should get up and see if I can find us some breakfast.”

Something about Thorin’s expression, relieved in the wake of hearing that Bilbo was not about to leave him, sent a very sharp sting of guilt through the hobbit’s heart as he climbed out of bed. Guilt over bringing back the memory of Nyrath although perhaps he had no right to. He knew nothing about him, nothing really about what Thorin had lived with him, nothing more than that, although his was a distant memory, it was also unusually vibrant in Thorin’s heart and it still carried a great power to hurt him. It had been cruel of him. He’d known that the moment he’d seen the look in Thorin’s eyes. A look of being struck without warning, in the one place where he was bound to suffer the most. Bilbo didn’t really know what had made him bring up Nyrath. Perhaps it had been the boldness of Thorin’s words and the wide uncertain echo that they sent through Bilbo’s mind. He did not need uncertainty. He did not want it. He’d had quite enough of it, in fact. He wanted some sort of guarantee that if he chose to stay, as Thorin obviously wanted, his place there would be secure, set in stone. Of course, there could be no such guarantees, and Thorin had not insincerely rushed to offer any. But that was just how things were. It was no reason to resort to cruelty.

It was with these heavy thoughts that Bilbo opened the door to Thorin’s bedroom, meaning to head out to the kitchen, only to be met by the wide frame of Dwalin, who seemed so determined to walk through that door that they almost bumped into each other.

Bilbo took a few steps back, managing to give an awkward greeting to Dwalin, who also seemed a little startled, and a slightly more appropriate one to Balin.

“Good morning, Bilbo,” said Balin, “where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“Uh, I was about to get breakfast,” said Bilbo, following Balin and Dwalin back into the room.

“Oh, I’m sure Thorin won’t mind waiting a bit,” he said, looking towards Thorin. “How would you like to get out of bed first?”

“Now?” asked Thorin, his eyes growing wide with disbelief.

“No later,” said Balin, eyes bright with a starlit smile.

It came in such contrast with Thorin’s dimmed appearance, but  it seemed to infuse him with new energy. He pushed himself up on his arms, meaning to sit up and wincing rather violently from putting too much trust in his left arm.

“Now, now, don’t fret,” said Dwalin, bending protectively over him. “We’ll help.” He took Thorin’s right hand in his and wrapped his left arm around Thorin’s shoulders. “You might feel dizzy at first,” he said close to Thorin’s ear. “Come on.”

Dwalin gently pulled Thorin up and off of his pillows. It did look like the sudden change of perspective after about three weeks of lying in bed was a little hard on him. He squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to get accustomed to the sensation, and then opened them again when the wave of dizziness eventually passed.

“All right?” asked Dwalin.

Thorin approved with surprising tolerance for help. Dwalin pulled the cover off of his legs gently while Balin approached carrying a bundle of clothes in his arms. He placed the clothes on the side of the bed and then selected the item on top, which proved to be a pair of black trousers.

Bilbo almost expected to be invited out of the room as he usually was when Thorin’s personal grooming needs were getting a little too personal for him to see. It felt like that now, as strange as it was, considering that he was being dressed rather than undressed. This moment when Thorin’s outer shell of apparent strength was being put back on and when the visible marks of his weakness were being covered felt more vulnerable still than being openly powerless.

He was allowed to stay, and so he watched as Thorin was slowly coaxed back into actual clothes, with care and time being taken so as not to stir up too much pain. He suffered everything with such patience, accepting help without any flares of wounded pride, although pride was to be expected. After all, he was a powerful warrior, and a king, who was now requiring assistance with something as simple as getting out of bed and dressing. Perhaps he was simply too tired of lying in bed not to be entirely consumed by this extraordinary opportunity to wear a shirt again and leave it.

Once dressed, Thorin was able to stand up, hanging on to Dwalin’s arm. It made him even dizzier than sitting, but he kept his patience and held on tighter to Dwalin until it passed. He even slipped a radiant gaze to Bilbo the moment he was sober enough to appreciate that he was standing again. Then he managed to limp slowly to his blue velvet armchair and Dwalin did not withdraw his support until he was comfortably settled into it.

Balin set his hands in his hips looking very approving of the situation. “There,” he said to Thorin, “that’s better. I’ll get you your rings back. And we’ll ask Bilbo to braid your hair until breakfast is ready.” Now Balin looked to Bilbo with a kind expectancy in his gaze.

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Bilbo.

“I’ll see you later,” said Dwalin, his hand still on Thorin’s good right shoulder, squeezing a little. Thorin looked up with unmistakable gratitude. “I’m around if you need me.”

He withdrew his hand from Thorin’s shoulder, glanced briefly at Bilbo in a way that the hobbit couldn’t read, and then walked away towards the door.

Bilbo felt compelled to follow him.

“Dwalin, I wonder if I could talk to you for a minute,” said Bilbo once he had closed the door to Thorin’s bedroom and found himself alone with Dwalin outside of it.

Dwalin turned to him looking like he didn’t really want to talk about anything. “What about?” he said, gruffly, as expected.

“Thorin,” said Bilbo, lowering his voice a little. “And myself.”

Dwalin glared something fierce, then crossed his arms over his chest. “That is none of my business,” he said. “Thorin can do what he likes with his life. And so can you for that matter.”

“You used to think otherwise.”

“Thorin and I have had a talk about that. It is what he wants. I cannot change that.”

“What, uh, what is it that he wants?”

Dwalin looked at him incredulously. “You. He wants you. I thought you’d seen that by now.”

“I...” Bilbo found himself unable to speak. Of course, he knew that Thorin wanted him in his life, but when put the way Dwalin had put it, it sounded a little frightening. “Yes, I, I have,” he said, lowering his gaze.

“Then we have nothing more to talk about,” said Dwalin, and left the room.

Bilbo stood there frozen, his eyes still set on the ground. Dwalin’s tone and look as he had said those words, _He wants you_ , had made the blood shudder in his veins. It was as if he was hearing Smaug talk about Thorin’s desire for the Arkenstone all over again, and it filled him with dread. That could not be the way Thorin wanted him. It simply could not be. He shook himself a little and looked up, remembering that Thorin was waiting for him in his bedroom. He turned to go back but found Balin standing behind him, studying him with a kind but all-seeing look from under his white eyebrows that resembled Gandalf.

“Are you all right, Bilbo?” asked the old dwarf, coming closer.

“Yes, I… I always feel a little out of sorts at this time of the year,” said Bilbo.

“I imagine the long nights of December are a little hard on Hobbits. You seem so fond of the light.”

“Well, there’s that.”

Balin smiled in the kindest way possible. “Even Dwarves are afraid of the dark sometimes,” he said, “I know I was when I was a wee lad. But you know what my grandmother used to tell me?”

“What?”

“Fear not the dark, for darkness is only light that sleeps.”

Bilbo smiled back instantly. “That’s… rather nice.”

“And true, most of the time,” said Balin, then greeted Bilbo for a temporary good-bye and walked off.

Bilbo could barely believe that his own mood had gone from dark to light in a matter of minutes. He wondered if Balin had heard anything of his conversation with Dwalin, or if he simply had wizardly powers of his own and was able to read minds.

Either way, he returned to Thorin’s bedroom carrying nothing of his earlier tension with him. Thorin gave him a frail look from his armchair. There was nothing threatening in it, not in his tired eyes, shadowed in grey. He didn’t seem to possess the energy to want anything as badly as he had wanted the Arkenstone.

Bilbo smiled to him, accepting the wave of warmth that came encircling his heart. “I’ll go get the brush,” he said and passed briefly into the bathroom.

Thorin retained his look of softness as Bilbo went back to him, brush in hand. It seemed that getting out of bed had exhausted him and he was not hiding it. “Can you sit up a bit?” asked Bilbo.

Thorin complied, and Bilbo started brushing his hair. The hobbit had yet to become used to the fact that his association with the Dwarf King had turned so intimate in the past month, that they had gone from battling evil and fighting to reclaim a kingdom to such deeply domestic things as hair brushing or making sure that Thorin was properly fed. It seemed that those things mattered so little in the grand scheme of the world, and yet now they proved to be so important. Domestic life had always been important for Bilbo, but after his recent adventures, he had begun to see it as only a little part of what made the life of others. It certainly seemed to be a very little part of Thorin’s life, and it probably would become that again once he had recovered. For now, though, it was what most of his life consisted of. And it didn’t seem to bother him as much as one would have expected. In fact, he appeared so comfortable with that at the moment that he was about to fall asleep.

 “Your beard has grown,”  said Bilbo, looking down at him and waited for Thorin to acknowledge. “Are you going to have it trimmed again?”

“No, not anymore.”

“Oh? You need a long beard to be King under the Mountain?

Thorin smiled, more alert. “It is not that. I have been wearing it short in honour of those we lost in the dragon fire, as a promise.”

“To avenge their death and take back your homeland?”

Thorin nodded. “My promise is now fulfilled,” he said. “And it is preferable to have a long beard as King under the Mountain.”

Bilbo smiled in return. “I’m sorry, I should have said this earlier. I don’t know how to make braids like the ones you had before. I don’t really have a lot of experience braiding hair.”

“Hobbits never braid their hair?”

“Not male Hobbits, no.”

Thorin’ looked like he was about to break into laughter, but he restrained himself. “Do you know how to make a three-strand braid?”

“Yes, I think I can manage that.”

“That will do,” said Thorin. “I probably need that kind more at the moment.”

“Need? What do you mean, need?”

“There is meaning to the kinds of braids that we wear.”

“Oh, right, of course there is. I should have thought of that. What do three strands mean?”

“They bring together a dwarf’s mind, body and heart. They make us one.”

“Hmm…  And the kind you had before?”

“Those have four strands. They are only worn by those who rule. They stand for courage, strength, generosity and wisdom.”

“I understand. You can’t have any of that, let alone all together, without being in one piece first.”

“Precisely,” said Thorin.

As he knit a lengthening braid near Thorin’s left ear, Bilbo wondered if Balin had purposefully asked him to do that because of what it meant. The impression that everything around him was conspiring to bring them closer and that Balin provided occasional help was already old in Bilbo’s mind. He was being steered into slowly coming to a decision that would have changed his life either way, a decision that had a lot to do with the question that had sounded so simple in Fili’s words: what he would miss most. For now, he was sure that he would have missed the feeling of having Thorin’s dark, strong hair weaved through his fingers just as much as he would have missed never sticking his hands into the black earth of his garden again.  

Soon enough, Bilbo finished Thorin’s second braid and set it neatly on his shoulder. Thorin glanced up at him, his eyes gleaming with relief that he was beginning to look like himself again. The remaking of his braids really did seem to do something for his confidence. Bilbo smiled at him, realising perhaps for the first time with such halting clarity how important it was for Thorin to recover his strength of both body and spirit, not just for himself, but also for his people. And he, Bilbo, was an essential part of making that happen. This was bigger than both of them, and even if it was  something that Thorin was used to and that Bilbo had begun to learn to live with, there was a weight to this moment that Bilbo felt not bearing down on his shoulders, but rather surrounding him, filling him with wonder instead of fear.

This awareness hung undisturbed in the air as the door opened slowly and Bombur appeared in its frame, carrying a tray. Bilbo turned to greet him, but Bombur didn’t seem to be aware of the hobbit. He stood in the open doorway as if bolted to the floor, looking at Thorin with large, glistening eyes. He stared for a while, then he snapped out of his stupor with an ample bow and finally advanced into the room. Many times Bombur had displayed a subtlety of movement that Bilbo had not expected from someone of his hefty stature, and now he appeared to be using his delicacy at its utmost degree in order to walk inside Thorin’s bedroom without making a lot of noise. He set the tray down on a table at Thorin’s side, and after giving him another disbelieving look, he finally acknowledged Bilbo’s presence with a little nod. Bilbo found his reserve unusual. This was not the Bombur that he had spent the previous day in the kitchen with. He seemed almost afraid to look at Thorin or to be in his presence with something other than quiet awe.

“Thank you, Bombur,” said Thorin, his voice slightly weaker than what Bombur had probably heard from him the last time they had seen each other.

Bombur seemed a little startled, but he gathered his wits honourably enough and gave another bow of his head.

“I hear you have taken charge of the kitchen and making a great job of it,” continued Thorin.

Finally, the visible tension in Bombur’s body loosened. “I thought I could make myself most useful there,” he said. “Bofur has been helping. And Bilbo.”

“Only very little,” said Bilbo.

“Well, I should go,” said Bombur. “There’s still plenty to do for tonight.”

“I can come by a little later and help out, if you want,” offered the hobbit.

“That would be very kind of you, Bilbo,” said Bombur. Then he turned again to Thorin. “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he said, then bowed again with particular devotion.

Thorin thanked him silently with a rare little bow of his own, and Bombur walked out of the room as gingerly as he had entered, but in much lighter spirits.

Bilbo gazed after him until the door had been closed behind him, then looked back to Thorin, who was obviously touched by the impression that he had made on Bombur. Bilbo could certainly understand how someone from the Company who had not really seen Thorin since the day of the battle could be impressed by seeing him now. He looked essentially like himself – his braids were more or less in place, he was dressed in his usual dark blue shirt and black trousers, and he sat rather confidently in his armchair – but there was an air of ether to his thinned features and his pale complexion, as if he had suddenly become light and airy, like an Elf.

“Well,” said Bilbo, as the scents of eggs and bacon and coffee eventually overpowered his less earthly thoughts, “let’s see what Bombur brought that’s good to eat.” He walked to the table where the breakfast tray resided, containing quite a generous meal, even for a Dwarf.

“I think that’s for both of us,” said Thorin, sounding amused.

Bilbo glanced back to him, then back to the tray. “I think so.”

They had had breakfast together before, but it felt different now that Thorin was no longer in bed. It felt more like actually having breakfast and less like keeping Thorin company while he wasn’t quite himself. Thorin also appeared more comfortable with things that way and ate with more appetite than usual, even though he retained a certain elegance of manners that Bilbo had always found to be very undwarvish. It suited him now more than ever, as his movements were slowed by a lingering difficulty in getting used to sitting upright. 

When they were done, Bilbo carried both of their plates back to the table and poured some coffee into a cup to give to Thorin. As he did so, he noticed that next to the pot of coffee stood a neat little stack of his lavender biscuits which he had made the previous evening. It seemed that Bombur really had prepared breakfast for both of them. Then he remembered that Thorin had quite liked his biscuits as well.

“Thorin?” said Bilbo, turning, “would you like more of these lavender biscuits?”

Thorin nodded, and Bilbo collected the entire stack of biscuits from the tray. They continued their breakfast in a sort of a daze of soft bliss. The last time that they had sat together around a meal, in the draughty dimness of the mountain, neither of them had had the heart to enjoy it. Thorin had not been himself and Bilbo had not really felt like himself. Now there was a palpable feeling that the worst was finally behind them and that this darkest day of the year would in fact be filled with the most light.

When nothing more than a few crumbs was left of the last lavender biscuit, Bilbo stood up and put everything back on the tray that Bombur had brought. “I should take these back,” he said.

“Thank you, Bilbo,” said Thorin, “for everything.”

Bilbo turned to him, tray in hands, and something in him began to melt. One could not say that Thorin looked humble, even if he was unable to stand on his own two feet without help, but there was something quiet in his countenance, a hushing of an inner roar, a ceasing of thunder that was wondrous to see.

If the door to the bedroom had not opened, Bilbo would have continued to gaze at Thorin as he leaned against the back of his rich blue velvet armchair, weak but hopeful, on what was his first time out of bed after the hardest battle of his life. But the door did open, and Dain walked in, carrying an air of reassuring authority that seemed to be a mark of the Durin line.

Bilbo responded with a smile to Thorin’s gratitude, and then walked out with a little bow of his forehead as he passed Dain.

Outside, in the sitting room, Ori and Dori were busy setting a long table that was surely meant to accommodate the entire Company. He greeted them, and then headed back to the kitchen.

Bilbo kept his promise and continued to lend a helping hand in the culinary preparations for Yule. He found that he was actually getting used to being in the kitchen of Erebor and he was starting to learn where everything was. In fact, he invested himself so deeply into arranging plates and other last-minute minutiae that he almost didn’t realise when the time had passed. He was taken by surprise when Balin walked in and announced that they should be getting ready to wrap everything up as the celebrations were about to start. They were both expected in the Royal Quarters.

They looked at each other briefly, knowing that they were finally going to reap the rewards of all their hard work. Bombur distributed the food that was to be taken to the Banquet Hall and that meant for the smaller and more private gathering in Thorin’s quarters. As the food began to be carried away by a few compliant dwarves, Bombur and Bilbo started on their way.

Slightly to his surprise, Bilbo found that he was a little nervous. He didn’t know what to expect from a Yule feast with the Dwarves, even if it was just those that he felt comfortable with. Something about the obvious ceremony of it all made him anxious. Yule feasts in the Shire were not very ceremonious, as nothing was, really. There were preparations being made, surely, and there was the same kind of enthusiasm taking over Hobbits as he could see in Dwarves, but they had no grand banquet halls, golden garlands, or kings and warriors to honour.

The Company was all there when Bilbo and Bombur arrived. They were greeted with quiet courtesy as they entered. To Bilbo’s eyes, it seemed that he was not the only one being nervous. They all looked like they were waiting for something momentous to happen, something even bigger than a holiday. The young Ori seemed particularly emotional and hung close to his older brother Dori, almost hiding behind his shoulder. Everyone was not really there, however. Dwalin was missing, and, of course, Thorin.

The look of the room confirmed Bilbo’s feeling that this was not going to be a Yule Eve such as the ones he had experienced in the Shire. The table was set exquisitely in a heavy dark red cloth and golden trimmings. The plates, goblets, knives and forks were all shiny gold with inserts of precious stones of various colours. This did not surprise Bilbo, but it was something that he had to stop to look at.

“King Thror’s tableware for banquets,” Dori said proudly, coming closer to Bilbo.

Bilbo glanced at him. “It’s quite... regal,” he said, with a smile that came easily.

Dori nodded, a gleeful light in his eyes. He had always seemed to have a special flair for elegance at the table.

Bilbo returned his gaze to the rest of the room. He had already seen the arrangement of the fireplace the previous night, and now his eyes were drawn more to a great golden harp that stood a little to the side of it. Its strings were shimmering like spider web in the warm light of many lanterns.

The heavy creak of a door called everyone’s attention towards Thorin’s bedroom. He stumbled out slowly, supported by Dwalin, and not looking at all less dignified for it. He stopped briefly to glance lovingly over everyone present. He looked radiant, in spite of being rather humbly dressed and quite visibly weak, and his beautiful hair, in which Bilbo had put two decent-looking braids, made up more than honourably for not having a long beard. He didn’t really need heavy armour, priceless fur or even a crown on his head to emanate royalty. It was in the way he carried himself, even now when he needed help with that. It was in his very presence and in his deepsky-filled eyes, and it could not be undone. They all bowed silently before him, remaining that way for a few good seconds, until Thorin resumed his slow, obviously painful walk to his seat at the head of the table.

Bilbo remembered a somewhat similar scene from the April evening when the Dwarves had taken over his home, filled his dining room and emptied his pantry. He did not remember Bag End ever to have been so noisy and orderless, and yet they had all become quiet the moment Thorin had come. Bilbo had understood right then and there that this band of hungry, chaos-making Dwarves had a deep respect for Thorin, and no matter how carried away they got with their songs and their chatter, it was all less important to them than appearing serious in his presence. Now Thorin looked much less intimidating than Bilbo had perceived him that night, but the Dwarves seemed all the more intent on showing him respect.

As Dwalin finally helped Thorin settle into his chair, something of the solemn weight in the air dissipated and everyone else approached the table, feeling as free as to start making hushed small talk.

The food was already on the table and the ale bubbled in the beautiful golden goblets, but for once, they did not rush to ravage any of it. Still standing, they lifted their goblets as Balin said, “Now that we are all here, we should light the log and then we can sit down. Brother, if you will do the honours.” He looked to Dwalin, who approved and went over to the hearth, where part of the ash log sent by the Elvenking resided yet untouched and surrounded by a blanket of twigs meant to aid the fire.

Dwalin grabbed a torch from a holder and leaned it inside the hearth, uttering what sounded like a ritual saying that went with this moment. “With fire we light the darkness of our days and our memory. With fire we bring warmth to our mountain halls. With fire we welcome the new sun.”

Bilbo found himself mesmerised by the orange flame which sprang alive around the log, so much so that he jumped when Balin nudged his arm and gestured for him to pick up his goblet full of ale. Bilbo did as indicated and as he reached down, he caught a glance of Thorin, who had his hand wrapped around his own goblet. In Bag End, everyone else had been sitting down, listening, and he had been the one standing and speaking loudly about the wealth of their people that lay unprotected in the dark depth of the Lonely Mountain and about their duty to take back what was theirs. Bilbo was sure that he would have been standing with the rest of them now and perhaps would have even lit the Yule log himself if he had been strong enough. But for now, all he could do was to sit and listen and smile mellowy to Bilbo. Bilbo responded by inclining his goblet of ale to him, meaning for it to be only a private gesture. Then he noticed that the others saluted Thorin in the same way, but with ampler movements.

After Dwalin returned to the table, they all sat down and the proceedings relaxed into the joyful, increasingly noisy atmosphere that was characteristic of Dwarf meals. Even Thorin shared a few laughs and joined in the general fun, which was something extraordinary for Bilbo to see, but which was received as entirely normal by the rest of the Company. They were trying not to make him feel any different because he happened to be in less than ideal shape at that moment, and it seemed to be working.

It all turned out to be a very happy affair and Bilbo’s concerns that ceremony would hang too low over the evening were easily expelled. When his plate was finally empty and he wanted no more on it, he could in fact say that he’d had everything he’d expected to have on Yule Eve – hearty food, blood-warming drink and laughter to fill a long, dark night of winter.

When everyone’s bellies seemed to have been appeased, Balin suggested that it was time for some music. It was then that Bilbo found out, not little to his awe, that the beautiful harp standing in the corner of the room belonged to none other than Thorin and that it had been restrung and cleaned and was ready for him to play it again. For now, Dwalin offered to give it a go in his place.

He did so with unexpected gentleness, unexpected to Bilbo at least. There was something velvety to the sounds that he drew from it, something deeply mournful and yet magical and promising about the harmonies that he weaved through its strings, as if he was pouring the dearest treasures of the dwarven heart into his song. It did not surprise Bilbo at all if Thorin’s eyes became a little misty as he listened to Dwalin play his harp. He didn’t need to understand the words that the others were singing in Dwarvish to know that it was about death and life, about grief and hope always woven together like night and day.

The night deepened beyond Bilbo’s ability to keep track of time. Watching the many empty plates on the table and the increasingly satisfied look of everyone in the Company, he surmised that it was sometime around midnight. His impression was confirmed by Balin’s gentle suggestion after Dwalin had finished playing another song that they should probably call it a night and let Thorin rest. The celebrations were going to continue in the Banquet Hall, for those who wished to join in.

Slowly, most of the Company bid their good night and filed out of the room. Thorin looked content with the way his evening had turned out, but he was obviously exhausted. While Bilbo busied himself with at least starting to clear the table, Balin and Dwalin helped Thorin back to his room and eventually into bed. They emerged about half an hour later, all smiles, announcing to Bilbo that Thorin was settled in bed and that he was already almost asleep.

“Will you join us in the Banquet Hall?” asked Balin, as he walked away from Thorin’s door.

“No,” said Bilbo. “I think I’d rather turn in as well.”

“All right then,” said Balin. “Have a good night. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Bilbo returned his wish, directing his response to Dwalin as much as to Balin. Dwalin nodded back, then followed his brother out of the room.

Bilbo glanced after them until they disappeared behind the closing door. Then he drew his breath and looked back to the fireplace, where the Yule log had shrunk to dark red embers. He had always liked this moment in the life of a fire, when the wood turned to ember and the heat was still strong but gentle, when the high flame was tempered to a low glow that radiated from within rather than burning from without.

Bilbo was indeed more than ready for bed, so he slowly opened the door to Thorin’s bedroom and went in. Thorin was lying on his back, divested again of his clothes, but retaining his two braids and the rings that he had worn all along the journey. His eyes were closed and he did not react to any sound, so Bilbo assumed that he’d fallen asleep. The hobbit went on to wash up and change out of his day outfit, then came back, especially eager to climb into bed and give himself to sleep.

But sleep proved elusive. Something kept him from closing his eyes, although he wanted to, very badly. Perhaps it was because his field of view as he lay in bed was taken up by Thorin’s profile and the thoughts that still glowed in his mind hovered around him. For the Dwarves of Erebor, this Yule Eve night was one like few others had probably been. On this darkest night of the year, they were getting back their light. They had been reunited with their king and from then on they could only rejoice at the certainty that he would soon return to them in complete possession of his prerogatives and would lead them towards the life that they were truly meant to have. Although Thorin did not place himself above them, it had never been more effortlessly evident that the Dwarves held his image above everything that was worldly even when he laughed and drank with them.

For Bilbo, however, there was still something remaining untouched by that deep sense of resolution, or at least by the knowledge that things would be all right. He knew that it would take more than one long night for him to achieve that kind of certainty over his feelings and over what would happen if he gave them free reign over his life. After all, that battle was only just beginning. But something had changed irrevocably over the course of that day. He felt much like a glowing ember himself, like a hard and unyielding shell within him had been charred into the very essence of warmth. He lay like that for a while longer, in the sweet spell that approaching sleep wove around him.

But sleep still did not come, and he was starting to understand why. He rose on an elbow, leaned gently over Thorin and placed a light kiss at the root of his nose, and two more over his closed eyelids. Thorin shifted his head under Bilbo’s lips, nudging the underside of his chin. Bilbo could feel him smile.

He pulled back a little, startled. He had honestly expected Thorin to be asleep. He wasn’t far from it. His eyes were open only slightly, but he had definitely been aware of Bilbo’s kisses.

Bilbo could pretend it hadn’t happened, or he could admit that he felt something for Thorin that could only be expressed in that way. He felt heat gathering in his face as he couldn’t help smiling back to Thorin.

“May I kiss you?” Thorin asked then softly.

Bilbo’s breath hitched in his throat. He hoped that it did not show too much on his face, but he probably hoped in vain. “Where would you like to kiss me?” he asked, putting on his best attempt at untroubled confidence. He would have had to lean whatever part of his face that Thorin was interested in towards his lips. He looked too weak to lift his head to the intended place himself.

“Not your forehead,” said Thorin.

Bilbo felt himself blushing violently, but he kept his head. “I don’t know if I can be what you want me to be.”

“I do not want you to be anything. I just want you.”

Thorin’s answer sounded so deeply true, not at all like greed was driving his words, or lust. There were things he could imagine and fear, things he could remember and fear more, but all of that faded in the face of simple truth. The truth was that his decision was already made and that it was no longer really his choice. He couldn’t choose not to love Thorin, whether there were any stone-set assurances attached to that or not. At what more of an assurance could there be other than being welcomed into the very deepest core of Thorin’s kingdom and of his heart? For now, it was enough.

Bilbo guessed Thorin’s wish even if he did not state it clearly. It was easy to guess, not only because Thorin had a special power to say more with the words he was  not speaking, but the thought of it had also been on Bilbo’s mind all day, ever since the end of their morning conversation. He had not meant to kiss Thorin’s nose or his eyes earlier. They had just been sweet diversions from something he dared not do. It looked like he didn’t have to hesitate any longer. He lowered his mouth to Thorin’s, not at all with quivering lips. The tickle of Thorin’s beard made him instantly want to giggle, but he restrained himself and only let his mouth curve into a light smile. The kiss was warm, and infinitely soft, as Bilbo had wanted it to be, and for once the fire in his face died down as their closeness lingered on towards an even softer end. It was more like a dream than like hard reality, but as they finally parted and gazed at each other in the wake of this act without return, they both knew that it was all very real.

Bilbo felt like a great wing of relief embraced him, and his limbs were turning to liquid. He let his head drop slowly on Thorin’s chest, but he remembered at the last minute that it would have probably hurt him if he had lowered his entire weight on it. He kept his ear there for a while, listening for the muffled song of Thorin’s heart, tucked safely beneath strong muscle and bone, much like the most precious of stones inside his mountain. It sounded reassuringly steady. Bilbo eventually glided back down at Thorin’s side and noticed that Thorin had followed him with his gaze, which was now wide and awake with the very sparkling opposite of sadness. Bilbo smiled at him, then leaned his forehead against Thorin’s shoulder, knowing that there would be another time for making himself disappear into his arms.  


End file.
